IC-NRLF 


FLORIZEL 


Isabel 

McReynolds 

Gray 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

CERF  LIBRARY 
PRESENTED  BY 


REBECCA  CERF   02 

IN  THE  NAMES  OF 

CHARLOTTE  CERF  '95 

MARCEL  E.  CERF  '97 

BARRY  CERF  '02 

mmmmmxmmJ^»M$ 


FLORIZEL 


BY 

ISABEL  McREYNOLDS  GRAY 


LOS   ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 
1910 


THERE  HAVE  BEEN  FIVE  HUN 
DRED  COPIES  OF  THIS  BOOK 
PRINTED  OF  WHICH  THIS  Is  No. 


101 


Copyright  1910,  by 
Isabel  McReynolds  Gray 


To  MY  SON 
HARRY  MCREYNOLDS  GRAY 


n7rrri>> 

Moo 


o/ 


THE  FIRST  CHAPTER  CONDUCTS 
THE  READER  TO  THE  GARDEN, 
WHICH  IS  TO  BE  THE  SCENE  OF 
MANY  PLAYS,  BOTH  SAD  AND  GAY 


ILLY  WRIGHT  JR.  was  a  Fairy.— 
Perhaps  you  have  never  been  a 
Fairy;  but  we  hope  you  have. 
Maybe  you  are  one  and  don't  know 
about  it,  or  have  forgotten. — Billy 
Wright  Jr.  had  been  a  Fairy  for  two  seasons.  He 
was  one  of  the  flower-sprites  who  popped  out  of 
the  big  red  lilies  in  the  fairyland  scene  of  that 
year's  greatest  comic  opera  success.  You  re 
member  how  they  smiled  at  you  when  the  flowers 
opened?  And  poised  for  a  moment  with  the 
dainty  tips  of  their  toes  on  the  shiny  petals.  And 
then  went  sailing  off  into  the  beautiful  scenery. 
More  than  likely  someone  explained  to  you  that 
the  flower-sprites  were  not  flying — just  moved 
by  wires.  But  it  was  pretty  to  see,  anyway,  and 
glorious  to  do.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  loved  it,  and 
he  was  a  Fairy  with  all  his  heart  and  soul  and 
body,  whether  he  flew  with  his  own  gauze  wings, 
or  on  wire  ropes. 

Possibly  you  may  be  of  the  opinion  that  play 
ing  at  being  a  Fairy,  in  a  theatre,  is  a  very  poor 
substitute  for  the  real  experience.  You  have 
heard  people  say  that  the  stage-world  is  an  illu 
sion — the  scenery,  the  lights  and  the  snow  storm 


and  the  horses  galloping  up  from  the  distance 
and  the  door  bells  and  the  wind, — all  illusions. 
And  the  actors,  just  people  who  make  believe  at 
anything,  the  same  man  playing  at  being  a  king 
one  week,  and  a  pea-nut  man  the  next.  Now,  let 
me  tell  you.  It  is  all  just  as  they  say.  The  stage 
is  an  illusion.  And  if  you  go  behind  the  scenes 
you  will  see  the  wrong  sides  of  things,  with 
ropes  and  pulleys  and  a  barrel  full  of  old  iron  to 
make  the  thunder.  And  a  man  at  a  desk  punch 
ing  buttons  to  make  the  sun  set.  You  will  see 
the  actor,  looking  rather  like  an  ordinary  person, 
perhaps  reading  some  scraps  of  papers.  And  you 
may  perhaps  not  see  any  illusions.  It  all  depends 
on  you.  But  they  are  there.  If,  after  a  while, 
you  can  get  the  actor  to  notice  you,  and  he  begins 
to  talk,  watch  his  eyes,  and  you  will  find  the  il 
lusions.  He  lives  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  stage 
and  he  sees  them  make  the  thunder.  Then  he 
goes  out  in  front  and  helps  with  the  deceptions. 
There  is  such  a  mixture  of  the  real  and  the  make- 
believe  all  about  him  that  he  forgets  where  one 
ends  and  the  other  begins;  or  if  he  is  a  real  actor, 
he  never  knew.  Other  people  grow  wise  and  learn 
to  see  through  any  make-believe  that  the  cleverest 
manager  can  think  up.  But  did  you  ever  know  of 
a  disillusioned  actor? 

Something  of  this  sort  will  probably  account 
for  the  fact  that  after  two  seasons  of  playing 
Fairy  at  the  Tivoli,  Billy  Wright  Jr.  was  firmly 
convinced  that  he  was  indeed  a  Fairy;  not  only 
at  the  theatre,  but  everywhere  and  always.  When 
he  went  about  with  Billy  Wright  Sr.,  his  father, 
or,  as  it  might  happen,  with  his  mother,  who  was 


Mrs.  Billy  Wright,  or  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers,  ac 
cording  to  where  she  was,  at  such  times,  I  say, 
the  young  man  turned  to  account  the  moments 
that  others  spent  in  foolish  conversations.  He 
turned  the  people  he  met  into  animals,  or  other 
amusing  things.  This  has  been,  as  you  know,  a 
favorite  and  profitable  pastime  among  Fairies  ever 
since  there  were  such.  I  had  never  seen  nnyone 
whom  he  had  altered  in  this  way;  neither  had  Billy 
Wright  Jr.,  because  he  never  followed  them  to  see 
how  they  liked  their  new  shapes.  But  I  was  with 
him  one  day  in  the  motor  car,  and  some  people 
came  to  speak  to  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers  who  talked 
to  them  all  at  once,  except  a  very  fat  man,  whom 
she  seemed  not  to  like.  And  I  suppose  that  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  didn't  like  him,  either.  For  when 
the  very  fat  man  made  a  face  and  winked  at  him, 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  said  quietly, 

"  I  have  turned  you  into  a  suet  pudding."  Just 
then  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers  finished  her  conver 
sation  with  all  the  others  and  we  whirled  away. 
And  the  last  I  saw  of  the  very  fat  man,  he  was 
looking  surprised  and  quite  like  a  suet  pudding. 

"  It  was  less  trouble  to  do  that."  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  told  me  when  I  asked.  "He  looked  so  wet 
and  puffy.  My  Grandmother  makes  them.  They 
have  raspberries  and  red  currants  inside."  I  said 
that  any  very  fat  man  should  be  contented  with 
that. 

That  evening,  after  the  third  act,  when  Mile. 
Mabelle  Villiers  was  touching  up  her  make-up, 
and,  as  Mrs.  Billy  Wright,  was  having  tea  served 
in  her  dressing  room  for  Billy  Wright  Sr.  and 
his  friends,  Billy  Wright  Jr.  came  in,  in  his  pink 


tights  and  gauze  wings  of  a  Fairy,  and  perched 
on  his  mother's  dressing  table.  He  rumpled  my 
hair  with  the  toe  of  his  slipper — and — 

"Apollo,"  he  said — he  calls  me  Apollo  because 
his  mother  does,  and  I  shall  always  think,  that 
in  spite  of  being  very  charming,  she  is  just  the 
least  in  the  world  vindictive — "Apollo,"  said  her 
son,  "I  don't  think  I'll  change  you  into  anything. 
You  are  more  useful  as  you  are."  For  which  I 
thanked  him,  being  gladder  of  the  certainty  of 
Mrs.  Billy  Wright's  tea  in  this  state,  than  of  any 
possibilities  in  another. 

Miss  Maidie  Manders,  very  long  and  slim,  but 
high-priced  attraction  of  the  Tivoli,  was  telling 
a  story  to  which  everyone  listened  politely.  And 
when  she  had  finished  and  everyone  had  laughed 
nicely  and  she  was  feeling  sweet,  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  leaned  forward  and  said, 

"  I  have  changed  you  into  a  clothes-hanger." 
And  then,  I  suppose,  because  nobody  seemed 
pleased,  and  she  least  of  all,  he  added  tactfully, 
"A  nice  shiny  one."  When  Miss  Maidie  Manders 
had  gone  away,  Mrs.  Billy  Wright  placed  a  gentle 
hand  upon  her  son's  forehead. 

"  My  precious,"  she  complained,  "  I'm  afraid 
this  is  going  to  be  too  much  for  you.  You  are 
feverish."  Then  she  kissed  him.  Then  he 
squirmed  away,  though  I  saw  that  he  would  have 
stayed  if  no  outsiders  had  been  there.  And  Ma- 
belle  Villiers,  touching  up  her  lips,  laughed  and 
said, 

"  But  that  is  exactly  what  she  is  like!  "  I  leave 
it  to  you,  what  she  meant.  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
curled  himself  up  in  a  chair  near  the  door  and 

8 


watched,  with  solemn  eyes,  while  the  stage  hands 
struck  the  set. 

"  I've  turned  them  all  into  roaches,"  he  told  me. 

That  night,  after  he  got  to  bed,  they  say  that 
he  tried  being  a  Fairy  in  his  sleep — wanted  to 
fly  up  to  the  chandeliers;  and  turned  his  relatives 
into  lamb  chops  when  they  interfered;  though 
only  his  mother  should  have  a  frill,  he  insisted. 
So  they  called  me  into  consultation  next  day  and 
we  decided  that  Billy  Wright  Jr.  should  visit  his 
Grandmother  in  the  country. 

They  asked  me  to  go  down  with  him,  as  neither 
his  mother  nor  his  father  could  get  away.  And 
a  young  man  in  my  position  has  nothing  but  time 
— which  I  am  willing  to  place  indefinitely  at  the 
disposal  of  this  charming  family.  Especially  at 
the  disposal  of  one  member  of  the  charming 
family.  But  if  I  tell  you  who  I  shall  be  going 
ahead  of  my  story.  Mrs.  Billy  Wright  packed  up 
the  boy's  treasures  and  cried  a  little  bit;  while 
Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers  laughed  at  him  and  de 
clared  that  he  would  never  get  to  be  first  comedy 
if  he  used  all  his  strength  in  his  first  engage 
ment. 

He  didn't  very  much  want  to  go.  But  I  think 
he  most  regretted  leaving  behind  the  pink  tights 
and  the  gauzy  wings.  He  wanted  them  very 
much.  But  the  doctor  said  no,  better  leave  every 
thing  of  that  sort  behind.  So  they  just  packed 
his  clothes  and  put  the  Original  Funny  Man  in 
a  cage. 

"Coin'  to  the  show?"  enquired  the  Original 
Funny  Man  and  stuck  his  green  head  out.  He  is 
a  parrot  and  Billy  Wright  Sr.  had  named  him 


Li, 


that  because  he  always  took  himself  seriously. 
Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  Grandmother,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  is  a  most  delightful  person;  and  though,  as 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  said,  she  is  only  a  step,  she  is  a 
real  grandmother,  right  enough.  She  is  not 
nearly  old  enough  to  walk  with  a  cane,  nor  does 
she  ride  a  broomstick.  She  doesn't  look  in  the 
least  like  a  witch.  But  what  she  doesn't  know 
about  White  Magic,  isn't  of  the  slightest  import 
ance.  She  had  cast  her  White  Magic  spells  over 
everybody  who  came  near  her,  so  everything  the 
cook  made  was  the  most  delicious  imaginable 
and  the  gardener  was  always  pleasant.— That  is 
how  Somebody  and  I  discovered,  long  ago,  that 
the  gardener  was  really  Pan,  the  god  of  all  out 
doors.  And  we  knew  that  his  dominion  extended 
far  and  away  to  the  shining  blue  strip  in  the 
west  where  ships  were  sailing.  That  was  the  Grand 
father's  kingdom.  The  Grandfather  came  home 
once  in  a  long  while,  with  chests  filled  with 
strange  beautiful  things.  And  once,  they  said, 
he  brought  home  the  White  Magic  Grandmother 
and  Florizel,  and  that  was  the  strangest  and  most 
beautiful  of  all,  and  the  real  beginning  of  the 
Garden  and  the  House  of  Dreams.  Every  time 
the  Grandfather  came  home,  he  told  us  tales  of 
his  marvelous  blue  world.  But  Pan  was  always 
in  the  Garden,  or  near  it,  doing  his  queer  spells 
to  make  things  grow,  like, 

"Shower,  shine, 
Flower,  vine!" 

But  the  Garden!     Let  me  observe,  the  Garden 
was  not  at  all  like  any  other  garden.     In   most 


10 


gardens  I  know,  the  trees  and  plants  are  growing 
in  rows  and  circles  and  squares  or  along  paths; 
all  so  still  and  precise,  and  you  can  see  that  they 
are  waiting  until  night  comes,  to  break  ranks 
and  scatter  around  into  natural  and  comfortable 
positions.  Well,  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  Grand 
mother's  White  Magic  had  enabled  her  to  arrange 
her  Garden  in  such  a  manner  that  every  tree  and 
shrub  and  plant  and  flower  and  bush  and  stone 
and  blade  of  grass  was  exactly  where  it  would 
rather  be  than  anywhere  else.  Consequently,  it 
was  a  good-natured  Garden,  a  jolly  Garden.  You 
felt  that,  as  soon  as  you  stepped  foot  in  it,  and 
you  were  made  welcome  in  such  a  manner  that 
you  quite  fell  in  love  with  yourself  and  wondered 
why  nobody  had  ever  before  found  out  how  nice 
it  was  to  have  you  around. 

If  there  ever  was  a  place  made  for  Fairies,  it 
was  that  Garden.  It  swarmed  with  them;  real, 
professional  Fairies  with  the  proper  spirit,  which 
recognized  talent  in  other  people.  And  Billy 
Wright  Jr.'s  entrance  was  the  signal  for  an  ova 
tion.  I  was  astonished.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  was 
surprised,  himself,  but  not  embarrassed.  Giving 
me  his  suit-case,  he  bowed  and  bowed,  and  at 
last  he  made  them  a  little  speech  in  his  best  man 
ner.  You  see,  Billy  Wright  Jr.  had  been  born 
into  the  profession,  and  it  all  came  about  very 
naturally.  Now  I  am  a  fair  amateur  Fairy  my 
self,  and  the  Garden  had  been  familiar  ground  to 
me  for  years;  but  I  realized  right  there  the  im 
mense  difference  between  the  amateur  and  the 
professional;  between  the  acquired  proficiency 
and  the  natural  gift.  I  could  never  have  made 

11 


such    a    speech   as    Billy  Wright  Jr.  made    to    the 
Fairies. 

Every  arrangement  of  the  Grandmother's  house 
was  calculated  to  meet  with  a  Fairy's  enthusi 
astic  approval.  While  it  lacked  many  of  the 
charms  of  the  top-floor  Play  Room,  Billy  Wright 
Jr.'s  room  contained  all  the  articles  which  might 
be  necessary  to  a  boy's  or  a  Fairy's  happiness. 
There  was  a  book-case,  not  very  large,  and  the 
books  in  it — put  there  on  the  slim  chance  that  a 
boy  would  ever  stop  thinking  long  enough  to  read 
— were  pretty  well  chosen,  for  they  were  mostly 
'Gene  Field's  verses  and  two  very  well-worn 
volumes,  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales,  and  Grimm's 
Twice-Told  Tales,  some  Irish  folk-lore  and  a  huge 
Shakespeare  made  up  the  list.  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
didn't  read  very  much,  though  he  knew  all  those 
books,  and  they  were  old  friends.  I  could  see 
that,  by  the  way  in  which  he  took  down  one  after 
another  and  turned  the  pages,  reading  a  line  here 
with  a  chuckle  and  turning  over  with  a  nod  to 
another  place.  Sometimes  he  read  a  long  time, 
he  told  me,  just  for  the  fun  of  pushing  his  own 
fancies  out  of  his  head,  and  holding  them  off. 
Then,  when  he  dropped  the  book,  back  they  came, 
I  suppose,  laughing  and  gleeful  and  pelting  him 
with  flowers.  But  if  you  kept  them  away  too 
long,  he  told  me,  they  got  tired  of  waiting,  and 
perhaps  some  day  they  might  go  away  forever. 
That  was  what  he  was  afraid  of.  So  this  time  he 
slipped  Shakespeare  back  into  the  case — not  be 
fore  I  had  seen  it  open  at  the  Dream — and  he  went 
to  the  door.  It  is  a  wide  door  of  glass  that  opens 
in  the  middle  and  lets  you  on  to  the  porch  and 

12 


into  the  midst  of  vines.  For  the  Garden  peers  and 
peeps  and  clambers  to  get  into  the  House  of 
Dreams,  here,  and  I  perceived  all  manner  of 
whispering,  giggling,  suppressed  laughter  and 
hushed  callings,  as  Billy  Wright  Jr.  and  I  went 
down  the  one  step  and  stood  among  the  shrubs. 
Part  of  the  White  Magic  was  that  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  was  encouraged  to  take  a  blanket  and  sleep 
out  of  doors  if  he  liked,  because  the  ground  in 
this  part  of  the  Garden  was  sweet  and  dry  and 
firm,  and  covered  with  pine-needles  from  the 
two  big  beauties  that  sang  high  in  the  blue  air 
over  Grandmother's  House. 

We  saw  to  the  unpacking  of  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s 
possessions.  After  consultation,  we  decided  the 
place  of  honor  to  be  the  stand  at  the  head  of  the 
bed.  There  we  put  his  make-up  box,  with  his  ini 
tials  on  the  cover.  That  had  come  with  him, 
though  the  pink  tights  lay  forlornly  limp  in  a 
trunk  at  the  Tivoli.  They  were  his  own,  and 
the  thought  that  never  might  they  distend  them 
selves  upon  the  form  of  another,  brought  com 
fort  of  a  kind.  The  Original  Funny  Man,  called 
sometimes  O.  F.  M.  for  convenience — though  I 
fancy  he  resented  it — emerged  from  his  traveling 
cage  and  ascended  the  door-casing.  Thence  he 
swung  to  a  vine,  sidled  along  the  swaying  branch 
with  important  flappings  of  his  gorgeous  wings, 
reached  a  pine  and  went  up,  beak  over  claws, 
to  a  belated  branch  much  nearer  the  ground  than 
all  the  others.  There  he  settled  himself  com 
fortably  and  called  out: 

"Coin'  to  the  show?" 

Billy  Wright  Jr.  had  just  finished  setting  up  a 


13 


number  of  photographs  of  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers 
and  Billy  Wright  Sr.,  as  well  as  a  flashlight  of 
Mrs.  Billy  Wright  making  fudge  in  the  kitchen 
of  the  flat.  And  I  trembled  for  the  effect  of  the 
O.  F.  M.'s  remark.  But  Billy  Wright  Jr.  ar 
ranged  the  pictures  with  absorbed  interest.  And 
then  he  turned  to  me  with  an  air  very  like  that  of 
Billy  Wright  Sr.. 

"  That  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,"   he   said. 

"What?" 

"Why  not  give  these  people  a  show?"  said 
Billy  Wright  Jr.,  nodding  his  head  toward  the 
Garden.  "Why  not?"  I  admit  that  the  idea  was 
new  to  me.  But  pleasing.  Why  shouldn't  Fairies 
enjoy  the  theatre?  Of  course.  Why  not?  I  was 
going  to  tell  Billy  Wright  Jr.  that  I  had  reached 
this  conclusion,  when  the  White  Magic  Grand 
mother  looked  in  and  said, 

"Are  you  boys  quite  ready  for  dinner?"  And 
she  put  everything  else  out  of  my  head,  excepting 
some  things,  which  is  the  effect  that  that  par 
ticular  Grandmother  always  has  upon  me. 

Billy  Wright  Jr.  was  thoughtful  during  dinner. 
But,  when  the  strawberries  and  cream  appeared 
before  him,  he  asked, 

"When  is  Aunt  Florizel  coming  home?"  I 
like  the  way  in  which  he  says  Florizel,  with  a 
lingering  caress  like  this  —  F-1-o-o-ri-z-el.  I 
sometimes  manage  a  little  to  get  him  to  say  it. 
It  has  a  very  musical  sound,  pronounced  so, 
though  it  is  not  at  all  a  new  way.  I  found  out 
about  it  myself,  a  good  many  years  before  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  secured  his  present  engagement. 

The  Grandmother  said  the  college  term  would 

14 


soon  be  ended,  and  Florizel  would  be  home  for 
the  summer. 

"Is  it  a  Ph.  D.?"  I  asked. 

"  I  think  that  is  what  she  intends,"  said  the 
Grandmother.  "  She  brought  home  an  M.  A.  last 
year. " 

"  Aunt  Florizel — "  Billy  Wright  Jr.  lingered 
again — "  reads  too  much.  I'm  afraid  she's 
spoiled.  " 

"I  hope  not!"  The  Grandmother  shook  her 
head  and  looked  kindly  at  me,  and  I  smiled,  but  I 
did  not  feel  cheerful. 

"  I  think  she  is  going  to  marry  that  professor- 
person.  So  does  my  mother,"  said  Billy. 

"  Oh. "  The  Grandmother  was  tactful.  "  I 
shouldn't  say  that,  my  dear.  The  professor  is 
very  charming — quite  the  foremost  chemist  of  the 
day,  I  believe.  Your  Aunt  thinks  him  most  in 
teresting,  as  she  does  his  sister,  who  is  the  pro 
fessor's  assistant.  Florizel  writes  that  the  sister 
is  a  lovely  girl."  There  is  one  thing  the  Grand 
mother's  White  Magic  failed  in.  It  could  not 
bring  back  my  appetite. 

After  dinner  I  went  with  the  Grandmother  to 
receive  messages  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Billy  Wright 
Sr.  Later  I  went  to  look  for  Billy  Wright  Jr., 
because  it  was  almost  time  for  me  to  go  back  to 
the  City. 

"  It's  just  as  I  thought,"  he  said,  when  I  joined 
him  on  the  grassy  slope  under  the  lemon  tree. 

"  Now  what!  "  I  was  rather  alarmed. 

"  They  have  a  theatre  already — of  course.  " 

"  Of  course, "  I  echoed.  Well,  I  hadn't  thought 
of  that! 


"Who  runs  it?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"  Puck — Court  Entertainer  to  Oberon.  " 

"  Well,  of  course.  I  might  have  guessed  that — " 
I  began.  And  then  I  said  "  Look  here!  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Oberon  himself  lives 
in  this  garden?  " 

"  No,  His  Majesty  and  the  Court  are  at  the  sum 
mer  palace  in  Fairyland.  But  Puck  is  here  in 
the  Provinces — for  his  health.  " 

"  Oh."    I  said,  "  Oh." 

"He  has  the  Royal  Seal  over  the  Theatre," 
said  Billy  Wright  Jr.  He  reminded  me  startlingly 
of  his  father. 

"  But  I  should  think  his  methods  would  be  out 
of  date,"  I  said. 

"They  are!  They  are!  And  the  people  aren't 
satisfied.  "  But  for  the  difference  between  soprano 
and  barytone,  I  would  have  sworn  it  was  Billy 
Wright  Sr.  who  spoke.  "  He  has  no  kind  of 
method.  The  chorus  isn't  drilled,  the  leads  are 
all  stale  and  a  lot  of  Pixies  get  up  in  the  gallery 
and  he  can't  keep  order.  " 

"  Oh  well,  then,  it's  time  for  somebody  to  in 
terfere.  I  don't  suppose  you  would  have  any 
trouble  filling  the  house  if  you  started  up  across 
the  way  from  him.  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Billy  Wright  Jr.  "  They  would 
have  to  close.  But  I  don't  like  to  make  bad  feel 
ing  when  we  all  have  to  live  in  the  Garden.  And 
anyway,  he  has  the  Royal  Seal.  " 

"  You'll  have  to  buy  him  out.  " 

"They  say  he's  awfully  keen  on  it.  Been  at 
it  so  long,  I  guess.  Thinks  he  can  act,  and  all 
that.  "  I  waited  a  second.  Then— 

16 


"  Give  him  comedy  lead,  "  I  suggested.  I  wait 
ed  another  second.  "Acting-managers  are  sel 
dom  successful.  "  I  waited  two  seconds. 

"  I  suppose  so.  Oh,  gee,  anyway,  Apollo!  "  said 
Billy  Wright  Jr. 

We  went  by  the  fountain  with  the  stone  basin 
and  purple  lilies. 

"There's  somebody  lives  in  there,"  said  Billy 
Wright  Jr. 

"Pixies?" 

"  No,  someone  else,  I  don't  know.  A  lady.  The 
Pixies  are  down  in  the  pond."  Just  then  the  Lady 
in  the  fountain  called  softly  "Apollo!"  and  be 
cause  I  started,  and  my  heart  went  leaping  wild 
at  the  call  of  some  old  memory,  she  laughed  and 
laughed,  and  laughed. 

"  What  shall  you  do  if  the  Pixies  try  to  break 
up  your  show?"  I  asked  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

"  I  am  going  to  put  the  O.  F.  M.  in  charge, " 
he  told  me.  Our  eyes  met.  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
looked  worried.  I  lowered  my  voice. 

"  Does   he  know?  " 

"  Not  yet.  " 

"  Well,  you  can't  all  be  first  comedy. " 

"  Nope.  " 

We  walked  under  the  twilight-filled  branches. 
The  murmurings,  stifled  bursts  of  laughter  and 
whispered  comment  that  I  had  noticed  before 
dinner,  followed  us  now.  Sudden  illuminations  in 
dusky  corners  showed  where  merrymakings  were 
beginning. 

"  There  are  a  good  many  People  here  I  don't 
know,"  said  Billy  Wright,  Jr. 

"What  like?" 


17 


"Different  from  the  People  I  know.  They're 
as  big  as  grown-ups.  They're  in  the  grove> 
mostly,  and  some  in  the  pond."  Again  I  heard 
faint  and  far,  the  voice  of  some  old  memory. 
But  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  affairs  were  uppermost. 

"  Then  you'll  have  good  houses,"  I  cheered. 

"  If  we  can  get  the  talent.  " 

"But  surely  you  have  enough  from  which  to 
make  a  choice!"  I  remembered,  you  know,  that 
every  Fairy  is  an  actor,  just  as  every  actor — every 
real  actor,  that  is — is  a  Fairy.  But  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  told  me, 

"  It's  as  bad  to  have  too  much  as  too  little.  " 

"  You  are  very  young  to  have  found  that  out, " 
I  said,  when  I  had  thought  about  it  a  minute. 

"  I  didn't  find  it  out,  Apollo,  I  knew  it.  "  And 
then  I  apologized,  because  I  remembered  that  it 
is  a  belief  among  the  Fairies  that  you  are  born 
with  all  you  know,  and  that  you  can  never  know 
any  more,  but  you  can  forget  it,  if  you  are  not 
careful.  And  no  matter  how  careful  you  are,  you 
are  bound  to  forget  some  things  as  you  grow  up, 
anyway,  in  order  to  relieve  my  embarrassment 
at  having  forgotten  so  very  much,  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  became  cheerful.  I  responded  as  well  as  I 
could  because  I  was  grateful  to  him  for  jogging 
my  memory.  But  I  was  quite  overcome  when 
he  said,  casually, 

"Suppose  you  write  a  play  for  us,  Apollo?"  I 
was  overcome.  I  admit  it.  I  manage  to  scrape 
along  on  my  royalties.  And  I  have  had  one  or 
two  first-night  thrills  at  the  sound  of  an  enthusias 
tic  gallery.  But,  to  write  to  order  a  play  to  be 
performed  at  the  Royal  Theatre  of  His  Majesty 

18 


Oberon,  King  of  Fairies!  I  was  dumb  before 
the  possibility  but  I  managed  to  grasp  Billy 
Wright  Jr.'s  hand  and  squeeze  it  as  a  sign  that  I 
would  do  my  best.  Then  I  found  my  voice  and 
thanked  him.  How  soon  would  he  want  it? 

"  I  have  two  or  three  things  that  I'll  run,  just 
at  first, "  he  told  me.  "  But  later  on,  we  want 
something  good,  and  I  think  you  can  give  it  to 
us.  Say,  Apollo,  who  do  you  'spose  will  have  my 
flower  at  the  Tivoli  tonight?"  Some  one  entirely 
unworthy  of  it,  I  assured  him. 

"  But  about  this  play — perhaps  your  Aunt  Flori- 
zel — she  is  a  college  woman — "  J  faltered. 

"Aunt  Florizel — v  this  time  he  said  it  sadly,  but 
lingered,  just  the  same — "  has  read  too  many 
books.  She  has  forgotten  almost  everything  she 
ever  knew.  "  And  I  was  afraid  that  it  was  true, 
that  she  had  forgotten  some  things. 

We  strolled  around  to  where  a  lighted  window 
was  sending  inquisitive  fingers  among  the  leaves, 
and  I  perceived  that  it  was  time  to  think  definitely 
of  taking  a  train  for  the  City. 

"Are  you  coming  out  next  week?"  His  eager 
ness  was  flattering,  and  I  said  I  would,  if  my  little 
gods  would  permit. 

"Who  are  they?"  he  wanted  to  know,  and  I 
told  him, 

"  They  are  little  jujube-paste  men,  white  and 
pink  and  all  colors,  that  you  buy  for  a  penny 
apiece  at  a  corner  grocery.  They  amuse  them 
selves  with  me.  Make  me  do  anything  they  wish. 
And  sometimes  they  come  and  make  faces  at  me; 
twist  and  flatten  and  pull  themselves  into  out 
rageous  shapes.  Each  one  has  a  string  tied  to  me 

19 


somewhere.  They  pulled  the  strings  to  make  me 
dance.  Sometimes  they  go  away  or  go  to  sleep 
and  forget  me,  and  the  strings  lie  loose  and  I 
don't  dance.  I  don't  do  anything  but  just  feel 
lonely  and  mope."  Billy  Wright  Jr.  eyed  me, 
looking  for  the  strings.  He  understood. 

"  I  have  some  gods,"  he  said.  I  wanted  to  know 
and  he  told  me.  "  Gallery  gods."  That  was  nat 
ural,  too,  but  I  wanted  to  know  what  they  were 
like. 

"  They  aren't  like — anything  at  all.  They  are 
feelings  you  have  when  you've  made  good — or 
haven't."  And  again  I  saw  that  he  understood. 

As  we  went  into  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  room,  the 
O.  F.  M.  came  across  the  vine  and  down  the  door- 
casing  to  meet  us. 

"  Coin'  to  the  show?  "  he  wanted  to  know,  and 
I  said  I  hoped  to,  later.  He  went  over  the  floor 
and  up  the  stand,  to  sit  on  the  make-up  box.  Very 
many  rose  leaves  had  blown  in  and  were  scat 
tered  on  the  floor.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  gathered 
them  up  and  put  them  on  the  stand. 

"  Look  them  over,  O.  F.  M.,"  he  said,  and  turn 
ing  to  me,  he  explained  with  a  pleased  smile, 
"  Their  cards.  I  didn't  expect  them  to  call  so 
soon.  " 

And  I  said  that  I  thought  that  things  looked  as 
promising  as  one  could  wish. 

"  We'll  put  up  the  ads  tonight  and  begin  re 
hearsing  the  chorus  tomorrow."  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  assumed  a  managerial  pose.  "  I  heard  a  good 
voice  in  the  jasmine,  and  I  think  I  know  where 
I  can  get  a  soubrette. "  I  said  I  thought  the 
thing  was  as  good  as  done,  and  he  told  me  that 

20 


in  another  week  I  might  take  a  look  in  on  the 
finest  show  to  be  seen  in  Fairyland  or  any  of  its 
provinces.  I  thanked  him  and  was  leaving. 

"  Coin'  to  the  show?"  The  O.  F.  M.  cocked  his 
yellow  eye  at  me.  I  said  I  was,  and  would  be 
glad  to  take  any  messages  to  Billy  Wright  Sr. 
or  to  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers.  The  O.  F.  M.  didn't 
think  of  anything  he  wanted  to  say,  I  presume. 
But  Billy  Wright  Jr.  said, 

"  You  can  tell  my  father  I'll  get  along  all  right 
down  here,  I  guess."  Then  he  stepped  out  and 
gathered  a  rose,  fragrant  and  dewy,  for  Mile. 
Mabelle  Villiers.  Just  before  he  came  inside  to 
put  it  in  my  care,  I  saw  him  place  a  kiss  in  it. 
That,  I  understood,  was  for  Mrs.  Billy  Wright. 

At  the  gate  I  heard  a  sound  like  the  bursting 
of  a  pod,  among  the  red  cannas,  and  a  round  black 
seed  hit  me  squarely  on  the  nose.  There  was  a 
high  hysterical  giggle  somewhere  in  the  dark. 
Billy  Wright  Jr.,  when  he  had  caught  the  seed  and 
looked  at  it,  smiled  queerly. 

"  It's  from  Puck.     He  wants  an  interview.  " 

"Has  he  heard?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes. "  I  wanted  to  know  about  that  inter 
view,  but  I  had  to  catch  the  train. 


21 


THE  SECOND  CHAPTER  REVEALS 
SOME  MYSTERIES  AND  GUESSES  AT 
OTHERS,  AWAKENS  SOME  MEMO 
RIES  AND  DISCOVERS  SOME  FEARS 


T'S  a  whole  week  since  you  were 
here!"  I  was  very  much  flattered 
that  Billy  Wright  Jr.  put  it  that 
way;  and  besides,  I  had  noticed,  my 
self,  that  the  time  had  seemed  long 
since  my  last  visit  to  the  Garden.  While  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  examined  into  the  various  packages 
and  messages  of  which  I  had  been  the  bearer,  I 
went  to  find  the  Grandmother  and  to  say  how  glad 
I  was  to  be  able  to  pay  her  another  visit.  Also  I 
thought  of  several  things  I  might  say,  should 
Anyone  Else  be  there.  She  was  not.  She  had 
gone  to  walk,  said  the  Grandmother,  "  with  that 
nice  boy  who  makes  such  excellent  French  verses. 
She  will  be  sorry  to  have  missed  you.  "  I  tried 
so  very  hard  to  believe  that  last,  that  I  had  be 
come  quite  cheerful  again  when  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
came  to  share  his  chocolates  with  us,  and  to  show 
us  the  latest  newspaper  notices  that  Mile.  Mabelle 
Villiers  and  Billy  Wright  Sr.  had  received.  There 
were  also,  a  bill  for  the  new  week's  performance 
at  the  Tivoli  and  a  letter  containing  the  news 
that  there  were  two  new  girls  in  the  chorus,  one 
pretty  and  one  not;  that  one  of  the  stage-hands 
had  a  new  daughter  whom  he  had  named  after 

22 


Mabelle  Villiers,  and  there  had  been  a  christen 
ing;  that  a  black  cat  had  come  to  live  in  Billy 
Wright  Sr.'s  dressing  room,  which  everyone  said 
was  very  good  luck  indeed;  and  that  the  boy  who 
played  Fairy  in  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  flower,  was  the 
rankest  amateur,  but  did  very  well,  considering. 
He  folded  the  letter  and  sat,  remembering  very 
many  pleasant  things,  I  have  no  doubt,  such  as, 
between-act  suppers  in  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers' 
room,  or  forty  winks  in  the  same  place,  curled 
up  in  a  chair  with  the  red  shawl  over  him;  and 
lots  of  other  happenings  quite  as  delightful.  Then 
he  squared  his  shoulders  with  a  little  inward  sigh. 
And  looking  at  me  he  said, 

"Want  to  see  the  rehearsal?"  I  was  most 
eager  and  I  said  so.  We  took  our  way  across  the 
clover-bed,  beyond  the  rose-hedge,  through  the 
currant  patch,  past  the  fountain,  under  the  oaks, 
through  the  oranges,  beyond  the  pond  and  down 
the  grassy  slope  to  the  hollow  near  the  arbor 
where  the  jasmine  and  clematis  and  the  royal 
red  roses  lavish  themselves  in  the  abandon  of 
giving.  And  as  we  went,  Billy  Wright  Jr.  told 
me  what  had  happened  since  I  last  saw  him. 

"  I've  got  a  chorus  of  Butterflies  this  week.  It's 
not  a  new  idea  but  they're  good.  Know  their 
business,  and  now  that  I've  got  them  so  they'll 
work  together,  they  are  all  right.  I've  found  a 
good  leading  woman,  too.  She's  a  native  of  Fairy 
land,  over  here  some  time.  Exiled,  I  think,  but  I 
don't  know.  She  can  sing,  though!  And  the  lead 
ing  man  is  great.  He's  a  Mocking  Bird.  "  I  could 
not  hide  my  astonishment,  and  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
very  kindly  explained. 

23 


"  Lots  of  birds  are  Fairies,  especially  out  here 
in  the  Provinces.  You  see,  it's  a  favorite  pun 
ishment.  For  anything  you  do  that  doesn't 
please  Oberon  or  Titania,  you  may  just  be  exiled, 
like  the  prima  donna,  or  exiled  and  turned  into  a 
bird  or  anything,  like  the  leading  man.  " 

"It  must  be  uncomfortable — "  I  shuddered, 
"and  dangerous."  But  Billy  Wright  Jr.  said  no, 
if  anything  happened  to  them  while  they  were 
in  the  bird  or  other  forms — like  hawks,  for  in 
stance — the  Fairies  just  stepped  out  of  the  bird 
or  other  forms,  into  their  own  forms. 

"  Why,  "  I  learned,  "All  the  orchestra  are  Fair 
ies,  of  course,  but  most  of  them  are  different 
things,  most  of  the  time.  The  bass  viol  is  a  Frog, 
the  first  and  second  violins  are  Crickets,  the  horns 
are  different  kinds  of  birds,  the  drums  are  Quail, 
and  so  on.  I  think  the  orchestra  at  the  Tivoli 
looks  like  that,  don't  you?"  They  did,  come  to 
think  of  it. 

"  So  your  leading  man  is  a  Mocking  Bird,"  I 
mused.  "  Is  he  at  all  like  the  lead  at  the  Tivoli?  " 

"  Well,  "  he  considered.  "  Well,  perhaps  his 
legs  are — a  little.  But  this  fellow  can  sing!  He 
could  do  a  lot  better  than  singing  in  light  opera 
here  in  the  Provinces.  He  could  be  doing  grand 
opera  at  home,  if  he  would  take  the  trouble.  He 
has  pull — family,  and  all  that — if  he  wanted  to 
go  back.  But  he's  lazy.  I  can't  make  him  work, 
no  matter  how  I  try.  And  he's  got  talent — loads 
of  it.  " 

"  I  wonder  you  keep  him.  " 

"Why!  He's  the  best  there  is!  "  cried  the  man 
ager.  "  Gee!  You  should  hear  him.  He'll  whistle 

24 


and  shuffle  along  through  a  song — like  old  Lovely 
at  the  Tivoli,  only  he1  can't  help  it — and  then  all 
of  a  sudden  he'll  begin  to  sing  like  sixty.  He 
can't  be  beat,  Apollo!  " 

"  Favorite?  " 

"  Yep.  He  don't  care.  Say,  I've  got  a  soubrette. 
She's  a  Carnation  Fairy,  born  right  here  in  the 
Garden,  but  she's  as  dainty,  chic  and  spicy  as 
you'll  find  anywhere.  She's  all  right!"  Billy 
Wright  Jr.'s  wink  was  so  like  his  father's  that 
it  left  me  gasping.  But  I  had  noticed  something. 

"  How's  your  comedy?  "     He  boiled  over. 

"Oh,  that  comedy!"  he  fumed.  "Why,  Puck 
is  a  disgrace  to  the  profession — why,  he's  a  clown! 
No,  he  isn't  a  clown,  Apollo,  he's  an  amateur. 
Why,  his  business  would  disgrace  a  slap 
stick  man  for  life.  He  has  no  art,  he  isn't 
funny.  He's  just  a  self-conscious  poseur — a  silly, 
conceited,  practical  joker!"  "Oh,  Billy  Wright 
Sr.,"  I  thought,  "how  well  your  son  has  learned 
of  you!"  But  I  marveled  that  all  this  should  be 
true  of  Puck. 

"  Did  he  make  any  trouble  when  you  took  over 
the  management?" 

"No.  He  came  and  offered  it  to  me.  He's  a 
gentleman,  all  right,  only  he  can't  be  and  never 
was,  funny.  "  I  thought  a  while,  before  asking, 

"  Why  is  he  ov-er  here?  I  thought  he  was  Court 
Entertainer.  "  Billy  Wright  Jr.  kicked  a  pebble 
into  the  pond. 

"  I  guess  they  couldn't  stand  him, "  he  said. 
Passing  the  pond  I  was  reminded.  I  asked  wheth 
er  the  Pixies  had  given  any  trouble.  He  said  no, 
he  had  sworn  in  a  dozen  large  Goose-Fairies  as 

25 


Their  act     is     clever. 


Know   them?" 


special  policemen  to  patrol  the  pond  and  guard 
the  theatre.  And  as  there  had  been  a  feud  be 
tween  them  and  the  Pixies  for  some  time,  he  had 
no  trouble  at  all.  The  audiences  were  good. 
They  were  appreciative.  They  knew  a  good  thing, 
and  weren't  afraid  to  say  so. 

"  I'm  running  a  vaudeville  turn  between  acts  to 
night,''  he  told  me  as  we  neared  the  theatre.  "A 
couple  of  French  Fairies  were  hard  up.  They 
want  to  get  back  home. 
They're  artists,  all  right.  " 

"  Who  are  they?  " 

"  Pierrot  and   Pierrette. 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  Then  the  voices  of  a  thousand  sweet 
old  memories  called  to  me.  "  Of  course  I  know 
them.  The  play  you  asked  me  to  write  is  to  be 
all  about  those  very  People.  I  am  glad  they  are 
to  be  here  to  play  it.  " 

"  Golly,  Apollo,  but  you're  all  right!  What's 
the  plot?  I'd  like  to  begin  on  it  right  away." 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  halted  me  in  front  of  the  Royal 
Garden,  Theatre  to  His  Majesty  Oberon,  King 
of  the  Fairies.  And  I  must  say,  that  for  a  Pro 
vincial  affair,  it  was  rather  gorgeous.  Why  Puck 
had  chosen  that  location  was  easy  to  see.  The 
natural  slope  of  the  ground,  to  the  level  space, 
with  the  roof  of  walnut  trees  and  background  of 
arbor  vines,  was,  of  course,  a  great  place  for  a 
theatre.  But  it  seemed  to  me  a  long  way  from 
the  house,  and  the  pond  was  between  us  and  the 
main  Garden,  too. 

I  shall  not  go  into  the  details  of  how  the  theatre 
was  built,  because  if  you  are  a  Fairy  you  will  easily 
imagine  it.  But  if  you  are  not,  no  amount  of 


26 


explaining  will  do  any  good.  But  one  or  two 
of  the  things  that  Billy  Wright  Jr.  showed  me  as 
being  inventions  of  his  own,  I  will  tell  you  about, 
because  they  surprised  me. 

The  flies  and  the  wings,  according  to  the  old 
methods,  had  been  put  up  by  spiders,  who  spun 
webs  across,  and  up  and  down,  and  then  hung 
them  with  leaves,  for  a  forest  scene,  or  with  tap 
estries  for  an  interior.  The  Night  Breeze  had 
always  been  scene-shifter.  The  footlights,  since 
time  immemorial,  had  been  black  cats  in  rows, 
facing  the  stage.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  changed  those 
things.  He  said,  "Why  not  flies,  and  why  not 
wings?"  And  so,  not  on  spider's  webs,  but  on 
delicate  vine  tendrils,  hung,  shining  and  decora 
tive,  the  flies  themselves,  in  airy  design  of  leafy 
covert  or  of  frescoed  interior.  And  up  and  down 
the  sides,  clasping  close  the  green  grass  columns, 
were  the  beautiful  plumed  wings  of  huge  moths 
and  other  fly-by-nights.  Now,  the  beauty  of  this 
method  was  its  simplicity.  At  the  call  of  " Strike!" 
there  was  a  sudden  buzzing,  fluttering  and  blur,  as 
all  the  flies  and  wings  rose  at  once,  and  whirled 
off,  while  the  new  set  took  their  places.  It  was 
wonderfully  simple  and  I  am  astonished  that  the 
method  had  not  before  commended  itself  to  Fairy 
stage-managers.  Especially  as  it  obviated  a  de 
pendence  upon  the  uncertain,  if  well  intentioned 
Night  Breeze. 

Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  innovation  in  the  matter  of 
footlights  was  also  heartily  to  be  applauded,  I 
think.  Because  he  substituted  groups  of  glow 
worms  for  the  black  cats.  Now,  cat's  eyes  give 
a  steady  yellow  light  that  is  very  soft  and  pleas- 

27 


ing,  but  it  will  hardly  do  where  brilliant  effects 
are  desired.  And  the  glow-worms  have  the  ad 
vantage  of  being  able  to  change  color.  Also,  they 
do  not  sing  when  pleased,  and  the  cats  do. 

There  were  a  great  many  other  things  which 
I  would  have  investigated,  but  rehearsal  was 
called  just  then,  and  I  found  a  safe  place,  out 
of  the  way,  from  which  I  could  see  everything 
that  happened.  The  play,  which  they  were  get 
ting  into  shape  for  that  night's  performance,  was 
the  old  time  Fairylan.d  favorite,  The  Sleeping 
Beauty;  and  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  exiled  prima  donna 
was  ably  fitted  for  the  role,  although  she  was 
far  from  sleepy  looking.  When  I  first  saw  her, 
she  was  chatting  to  the  leading  man — I  had  no 
difficulty  in  recognizing  him — and  several  of  the 
chorus.  She  carried  a  tiny  yellow  bird  on  her 
finger,  a  rather  nicer  pet  than  a  bull-dog,  I  should 
imagine.  I  thought  her  very  charming,  with 
something  a  little  sad  about  her  in  quieter  mo 
ments.  And  I  wondered  what  cause  there  could 
be  for  the  exile  of  so  lovely  a  Person.  But  in 
the  midst  of  my  wonderment,  the  soubrette  danced 
in,  the  Carnation  Fairy,  and  set  my  wits  glimmer 
ing  like  fire-flies.  She  was  all  that  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  had  said  of  her,  and  more,  oh,  much  more. 
In  a  very  short  time  I  had  discovered  that  the 
leading  man,  the  second  lead  and  all  the  male 
chorus  were  hopelessly  entangled.  I  was  in 
fatuated,  I  frankly  admit  it.  When  she  ran  up 
to  me,  and  without  waiting  to  have  me  presented, 
extended  both  pretty  hands  and  cried, 

"  I  know  who  you  are,  you're  Apollo,  and  you've 
written  us  a  new  play!     Is  there  a  good  part  in 

28 


it  for  me?"  I  was  ravished  and  I  stammered 
something  about  writing  the  thing  over  for  her. 
But  she  chatted  away  gaily  and  wouldn't  let  me 
remember  my  embarrassment,  so  that  in  a  little 
while  I  was  pleased  with  myself  and  very  happy. 
She  told  me  bits  of  gossipy  news.  How  the  male 
chorus  had  been  recruited  from  the  Grasses — 
quite  a  common  class — but  they  could  sing.  And 
they  were  nice  boys,  too,  but  ordinary.  And  how 
the  Butterflies  were  just  daft  over  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  and  would  rehearse  all  day  and  all  night  to 
please  him.  And  how  the  leading  woman,  Oiseau 
d'Or,  was  as  sweet  as  she  could  be,  but  triste  at 
times,  and  that  made  her  a  little  difficult,  poor 
dear! 

"La!  What  a  chatter-box  you'll  think  me!" 
she  ended,  to  my  intense  regret.  I  don't  know 
of  any  more  entrancing  occupation  than  watching 
this  dainty  Person  as  she  waved  about  her  pretty 
hands  and  made  delicious  moues  in  imitation  of 
her  fellow  actors. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Carnation — "  I  was  protesting 
when  she  stopped  me. 

"  Call  me  Pink, "  she  begged  adorably,  "  every 
body  does.  "  And  I  consented  at  once. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  anything  about  the  lead 
ing  man — Pink,  "  I  said  with  a  thrill. 

"Haven't  I?"  I  noticed  that  the  glow  from 
her  fru-fru  skirts  was  reflected  in  her  delicate 
face.  She  glanced  at  the  leading  man,  who  was 
just  then  looking  at  her — as  I  suspected  he  hac1 
been,  since  she  had  made  her  appearance.  She 
beckoned  to  him,  and  he  came  toward  us  eagerly. 

"  He  can  tell  you  about  himself."     She  said — 

29 


"Apollo,  this  is  Voix-belle,  our  leading  man.  Voix- 
belle,  Apollo  has  written  us  a  play."  Voix-belle 
bowed  stiffly  to  me  and  looked  with  a  proud  sort 
of  humble  adoration  at  Pink.  And  I  observed  a 
shyness  in  her  that  hadn't  been  evident  before. 
Voix-belle  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  fellow,  if  he  was 
slightly  inclined  to  plumpness  of  waist  and  slen- 
derness  of  limb.  He  wore  a  curiously  wrought 
cape  of  grey  and  white  feathers,  and  a  cap  of 
the  same. 

''Coin'  to  the  show?"  asked  someone  rather 
pointedly,  and  I  turned  to  greet  the  O.  F.  M.  A 
very  fat  Tree-toad  ran  up  a  branch  and  called 
out: 

"Rehearsal!  First  act.  Butterflies  read}'  for 
entrance.  Miss  Pink — All  right,  Mr.  Orchestra 
Leader!"  Pink  and  Voix-belle  went  away  and 
the  O.  F.  M.  and  I  settled  down  to  watch. 

Did  you  know  that  Fairy  plays  always  begin 
where  ours  leave  off?  "And  they  lived  happy 
ever  after"  is  the  signal  for  hats  and  street-cars 
with  us.  But  in  the  Fairy  play  it  is  the  begin 
ning — in  the  Happily-Married  play,  that  is.  There 
is  another  kind  of  play,  all  sad  and  drippy,  where 
the  fond  young  lover  is  killed  at  the  wars  or  mar 
ries  to  please  his  mother;  or  the  young  girl  sac 
rifices  herself  to  duty,  whatever  that  may  mean! 
Or  someone  finds  out  something  disgraceful  that 
one  of  them  did  in  Grammar  School,  and  it  is  all 
off;  and  the  audience  gets  up  and  goes  away 
quietly.  This  sort  of  a  play,  known  as  the  Mis 
erable  Play,  in  Fairyland,  begins  where  the  mis 
ery  is  completed  and  goes  forward  to  a  logical 
happy  ending.  Because  it  is  natural  for  things  to 

30 


end  happily.  It  makes  no  difference  to  a  Fairy 
play  or  audience  that  one  of  the  characters  has 
died.  When  a  Fairy  dies,  he  just  takes  some 
other  form  and  begins  a  new  set  of  adven 
tures.  The  "  Sleeping  Beauty "  is  a  happily 
married  play.  The  way  it  goes  with  us  is  like 
this: — When  it  was  clearly  understood  by  ev 
erybody  that  they  had  just  been  awakened 
from  a  magic  sleep  by  Prince  Charming,  there 
was  a  great  hubbub.  And  you  might  have  heard 
any  number  of  accounts  of  how  it  all  might 
have  been  prevented,  if  Such-a-One  had  not 
been  overtaken  by  sleep  just  as  he  was  about 
to  warn  the  constable.  But  they  were  all  very 
grateful  to  the  Prince,  whose  wedding  to  the 
Beauty  took  place  that  very  day.  And  they  lived 
happy  ever  after.  And  that  is  where  the  real  story 
begins. 

That  Butterfly  chorus!  Maybe  it  wouldn't  do 
at  the  Tivoli.  Maybe  it  wouldn't.  But,  in  the  way 
of  choruses  it  was  the  finest  I  ever  saw.  Pink 
Was  quite  right  in  what  she  said  about  their  re 
gard  for  Billy  Wright  Jr.  And  he  was  proud  of- 
them.  I  could  see  that.  And,  as  is  the  way  with 
managers,  he  made  them  work  much  harder  on 
that  account.  Nothing  short  of  perfection  would 
please  him,  it  seemed,  and  the  poor  pretty  things 
did  their  best  to  give  it  to  him. 

"You're  slow,  there!"  he  shouted,  in  admirable 
imitation  of  the  irascible  manager  of  the  Tivoli. 
"Get  in  line,  Tete-noir!"  And  Tete-noir  would 

I. 

^  •  ViM1  /? 

praising  the  best  ones,  I  suppose,  and  advising  or 


get  in  line,  looking  ready  to  cry.     But,  after  th;e 
dance,   Billy  Wright  Jr.  would   go  among  them, 


31 


suggesting.  I  can't  believe  that  he  scolded  them, 
for  he  left  a  ripple  of  smiles  and  blushes  all  along 
the  line. 

Pink  and  the  second  lead,  Honey  Suckle,  had 
a  song  about  the  gay  little  Firefly  who  had  red 
shoes;  and  then  they  did  a  dance  that  left  me 
speechless  with  admiration.  Entered  the  Prince 
Charming  to  tell  his  troubles  to  the  chorus.  The 
Beauty,  convinced  that  the  world  owed  her  a  debt 
of  happiness,  had  determined  to  make  up  for  all 
the  good  times  she  had  lost  in  the  hundred-year- 
magic-sleep,  and  this  just  when  Prince  Charm 
ing  had  prepared  to  wind  up  all  of  his  little  af 
fairs  and  settle  down  as  a  quiet  king-elect.  The 
male  chorus  sympathized  with  the  Prince.  But 
the  Butterflies  and  Pink  ran  away  laughing  "La, 
la,  la!"  in  a  ravishing  fashion. 

Voix-belle,  as  the  Prince,  did  a  really  fine  thing 
in  the  way  of  recitative,  "Where  is  now  the  peace 
I  sighed  for?"  Then  he  and  the  chorus  sang 
an  ungallantly  rollicking  "  Happy  Bachelor  Days," 
and  skipped  off.  Oiseau  d'Or  and  Pink  ran 
through  a  duet,  "Time,  the  Rogue,"  and  then 
called  in  the  Butterflies.  They  made  their  plans 
for  an  exciting  hundred  years,  and  all  exited 
chanting  "Let's  Be  Gay,  Let's  Be  Gay!" 

Voix-belle,  Honey  Suckle,  and  the  second  com 
edy,  Dan  de  Lion,  who  played  the  king,  and 
Tassel  Top,  the  leader  of  the  Grass  chorus,  en 
tered  with  the  manners  of  conspirators.  I  had 
been  wondering  where  Puck  was.  I  saw  that  all 
the  People  were  apprehensive  of  something,  and 
I  guessed  that  his  cue  was  approaching.  The 
Tree  Toad  was  scurrying  about  looking  behind 

32 


PINK 
La!     What  a  chatterbox  you'll  think  me!" 


things.  But  I  could  have  told  him  that  Puck  had 
not  come  at  all.  I  wondered  at  Billy  Wright  Jr., 
who  was  calmly  talking  to  Oiseau  d'Or.  Sud 
denly,  out  of  nothing  but  the  air,  a  red  something 
dropped  plump  into  the  demoralized  orchestra. 
I  gasped.  It  was  Puck!  He  scrambled  out  in 
high  glee  and  got  on  to  the  stage  in  time  to 
take  up  his  cue;  and  the  orchestra  agitatedly  re 
arranged  itself.  To  my  surprise,  no  one  paid  the 
slightest  attention  to  Puck's  extraordinary  be 
havior,  which,  nevertheless,  he  kept  up  as  though 
he  enjoyed  it.  Undoubtedly,  he  had  learned  his 
comedy  in  prehistoric  times,  when  burning  an  un 
suspecting  friend  in  bed  was  the  hugest  kind  of 
a  joke.  I  watched  him  with  astonishment.  But 
utter  weariness  overspread  the  faces  of  all  the 
cast.  I  hardly  wondered  at  that.  Puck  was  play 
ing  the  wizard,  who,  at  the  earnest  request  of  all 
the  husbands  and  lovers,  was  to  put  the  Beauty 
and  all  her  court  ladies  to  sleep  again.  But  his 
"  business "  quite  ran  away  with  the  situation. 
Finally  they  brought  the  scene  to  an  end,  how 
ever,  and  the  climax  saw  the  Prince  and  his 
Grasses  triumphant  over  the  sleepy  Beauty  and 
her  nodding  Butterflies. 

Billy  Wright  Jr.  came  to  talk  to  me  during  the 
intermission.  I  congratulated  him  upon  the  ex 
cellence  of  everything.  He  was  pleased,  but  his 
joy  was  not  unmixed. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  he  asked.  It  was  useless 
to  pretend,  so  I  said  "  Yes,"  gravely,  as  the  situa 
tion  demanded.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  looked  at  me 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"What  can  a  fellow  do?"  he  asked.     I  couldn't 


33 


tell  him.  I  didn't  know.  But  I  tried  to  be  cheer 
ful. 

"  I  should  think  he  would  please  the  gallery.  " 

"  Well,  he  doesn't.  They  think  he's  rotten." 
There  was  nothing  more  to  say. 

The  second  act  was  exclusively  for  male  voices 
— something  new  in  the  way  of  opera  comique. 
And  Voix-belle  showed  at  once  his  possibilities 
and  his  limitations.  He  could  sing,  but  most  of 
the  time  he  did  not.  The  Prince  and  his  gentle 
men  found  life  very  dull  without  the  fair  ones, 
and  the  wizard  was  again  called  to  their  aid,  this 
time  to  awaken  the  Beauty  and  her  ladies.  He 
refused.  And  here  Puck  got  his  innings.  But 
I  will  omit.  In  time,  the  wizard  was  persuaded, 
bribed  and  coerced  into  compliance. 

In  the  third  act,  the  awakening  occurred.  But 
something  went  wrong.  The  wizard  had  forgot 
ten  the  charm.  In  vain  he  repeated  it,  like  a  dull 
boy  at  an  oral  examination.  He  could  not  get  it 
right.  So  the  Beauty  and  her  ladies  awakened, 
but  they  had  forgotten  the  Prince  and  his  gentle 
men!  A  distressing  state  of  affairs.  But  a  happy 
ending  was  devised.  The  Prince,  by  his  true-love, 
was  able  to  find  the  charm  which  would  recall  him 
to  the  memory  of  the  Beauty.  And  she,  twice 
owing  her  consciousness  to  the  Prince,  agreed  to 
please  him  henceforth.  The  gentlemen  having  fol 
lowed  the  Prince's  example,  the  ladies  followed 
that  of  the  Beauty  and  the  opera  came  to  an  end. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  that  spell,"  I  told  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  "  I  would  like  to  recall  myself  to  the  memory 
of  a  certain  Beauty.  " 

"  You  know  it,   Apollo,"  said  he,   "  if  you   would 

34 


only  just  think  hard  enough.  "  But  if  I  did  know 
it,  I  couldn't  think  hard  enough,  I  suppose. 

"  See  you  to-night!  "  Pink  nodded  to  me  as  she 
went  out  with  her  maid,  a  black-eyed  Susan.  I 
went  out  to  wait  for  Billy  Wright  Jr.  in  front  of 
the  theatre.  Oiseau  d'Or  came  out  and  got  into 
her  motor  car,  a  Red  Beetle.  She  was  quite  alone, 
and  I  wondered  about  her  as  she  swept  away. 
Why  was  she  sad?  The  Butterflies  tripped  off  in 
twos  and  threes,  followed  at  discreet  distances 
by  admiring  Grasses,  not  only  of  the  chorus.  A 
shower  of  water  sprinkled  me.  Somebody  giggled. 
When  I  looked  around  Puck  was  sitting  on 
the  stone  wall  near  the  pond.  As  he  caught  my 
eye,  he  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  wriggled  his  nose, 
and  went  over  backwards  with  a  shriek.  I  saw  him 
peeking  through  some  bamboo  on  the  other  side, 
to  see  how  I  was  taking  it.  I  suppose  he  is  silly, 
but  I  can't  help  liking  the  fellow. 

Billy  Wright  Jr.,  the  O.  F.  M.,  Voix-belle  and 
Dan  de  Lion  came  out  together.  They  stood  for 
a  moment,  discussing  something.  Then  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  took  Voix-belle  by  the  hand,  and  I 
heard  him  say: 

"  Well,  old  man,  we're  with  you.  And  con 
gratulations!  "  Then  they  all  parted  and  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  joined  me. 

"Somebody  been    getting    engaged?"     I  asked. 

"Yes.     Voix-belle  and  Pink." 

"Well,  isn't  that  all  right?"  I  felt  a  little  en 
vious,  though. 

"  I  hope  so.  Pink's  all  right.  She's  all  right. 
But  Voix-belle  doesn't  belong  out  here,  you  know, 
and  his  family  may  make  trouble.  That's  all.  " 

ra 

35 


"  They  wouldn't,  if  they  could  see  Pink,"  I  said 
with  confidence. 

"  Well,  I  hope  they  won't.  I'd  hate  to  lose 
either  of  them." 

We  found  all  the  family  on  the  veranda,  and  I 
forgot  Voix-belle's  troubles  in  my  own,  when  I 
saw  Florizel.  She  was  listening  to  the  Nice  Boy's 
French  verses.  She  greeted  me  very  kindly,  and 
invited  me  to  listen,  too.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  sat  be 
side  me.  After  several  French  verses  he  whis 
pered  to  me, 

"Aunt  Florizel  knows  some  things.  She  told 
me  who  those  People  are  that  I  didn't  know — 
the  ones  in  the  grove  and  the  pond  and  the  foun 
tain.  " 

"Who  are  they?"  I  whispered.  I  didn't  care 
if  the  Nice  Boy  did  scowl. 

"  They're  Hamadryads  and  Fauns  and  Satyrs 
and  Naiads  and  Nymphs!"  he  hissed  in  my  ear. 

"  No!  "  I  gasped. 

"Yes!  And  she  says  you  and  she  knew  them 
all  when  you  were  little  and  played  in  the  Gar 
den,  and  she  named  you  Apollo  and  you  named 
her  Diana.  She  hasn't  forgotten  everything!" 
After  that,  let  the  Nice  Boy  scowl.  Let  him  read 
his  French  verses,  if  Florizel  remembered  that 
much! 

Billy  Wright  Jr.  went  to  call  on  a  Mrs.  Bird 
who  lived  in  the  white  La  Marque  at  the  veranda- 
end.  He  climbed  to  the  railing,  very  carefully 
indeed,  that  he  might  not  disturb  Mrs.  Bird,  and 
when  his  small  nose  was  on  a  level  with  the  little 
round  house,  he  peeped,  very  carefully,  and  smiled, 

36 


but  said  never  a  word — in  our  language.  He 
climbed  down  as  carefully  and  came  back  to  me. 

"  Golly,  Apollo!"  his  eyes  were  shining,  "  three 
of  them,  just  as  blue!"  The  Nice  Boy  shouted. 

"Apollo!  That's  good!"  He  looked  at  me  and 
laughed  rudely.  "Apollo!  By  Jove!"  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  looked  huffed.  Florizel  did  not  look 
amused.  I  don't  know  how  I  looked.  But  the 
Nice  Boy  didn't  care. 

"Where  is  Clytie,  Apollo?  I  heard  that  she 
turned  herself  into  a  flower  because  you  wouldn't 
notice  her.  That's  no  way  to  treat  a  nice  girl." 

"Clytie  was  a  water-nymph  before  she  became 
a  flower,"  said  Florizel.  "  When  sun-flowers  be 
came  so  common,  she  gave  up  the  fad  and  went 
to  live  in  a  fountain."  I  held  my  breath.  That  was 
an  old  story  in  the  Garden.  If  Florizel  remem 
bered  that!  My  heart  was  tugging  like  a  kite. 

"Well,  where  is  Daphne?"  pursued  the  Nice 
Boy.  "  I  have  always  wanted  to  know  your  side 
of  that  story.  Rough  on  you,  I  thought,  having 
a  girl  turn  herself  into  a  tree  to  be  rid  of  you!" 
And  the  wretch  laughed  uproariously.  He  sud 
denly  stopped,  seeing  that  Florizel  was  grave. 
"  Perhaps  you  were  Daphne."  Florizel  flashed 
me  a  little  smile  and  I  soared  up  amid  singing 
clouds  and  chanting  winds. 

"  I  am  Diana,"  she  told  him. 

"Diana!"  echoed  the  Nice  Boy.  "Oh,  his  sis 
ter!  I  see!"  I  came  to  earth. 

"  The  Garden  used  to  abound  with  Fauns  and 
Satyrs,  and  my  Nymphs,"  said  Florizel,  gazing 
wistfully,  I  thought,  into  the  green  distance.  Did 
she  see  a  waving  hand? 


37 

r 


"They  are  still  here!"  I  said  softly.  I  am  not 
sure  she  heard  me. 

"  Youth  is  a  Seer  and  a  worker  of  miracles," 
said  she.  '"When  I  was  a  child,  I  thought  as  a 
child.'  It  is  a  finer  thing  to  do  than  to  dream." 

"  I  am  a  Classic  Myth,  myself,"  said  the  Nice 
Boy.  "  I  am  Endymion." 

"  Eternal  sleep  and  eternal  youth,"  I  mused. 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  you  haven't  chosen  the  bet 
ter  part,  Endymion.  To  wake,  and  to  grow  old — 
that  is  the  lot  of  mortals!"  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
slipped  his  arm  about  my  neck. 

"  To  be  a  pessimist  is  to  be  a  clog  in  the  wheels 
of  progress,"  Florizel  told  me. 

"Who  speaks  of  mortals?"  asked  the  Nice 
Boy.  "The  gods  live  forever!" 

"  While  we  believe,"  said  I.  Florizel  laughed 
at  me. 

"  Can  you  no  longer  drown  your  troubles  at 
Clyde's  fountain?"  She  turned  to  the  Nice  Boy. 
"  When  Apollo  was  a  very  young  child,  and  the 
world  was  difficult,  he  went  and  dabbled  his  hands, 
and  sometimes  his  feet,  too,  in  the  fountain  out 
there.  And  the  Lady,  as  he  called  her — you 
never  would  acknowledge  that  she  was  Clytie, 
Apollo,  why? — she  was  so  sympathetic,  she  bab 
bled  right  along  about  her  own  affairs.  But  Apol 
lo  didn't  mind  that.  He  always  came  away  com 
forted.  But  once,  he — "  She  stopped  and  laughed 
gaily  at  my  face  of  dismay.  "  I'll  not  tell.  I  didn't 
then,  and  I  won't  now.  But  oh,  to  think  of  it! 
You  might  have  been  a  myth  in  good  earnest,  if 
I  hadn't  pulled  you  out  bodily!  "  The  Nice  Boy 
looked  knowing.  But  I  was  glad  that  he  did  not 

38 


know  about  th$  time  when  I  determined  to  go  and 
live  in  the  fountain  because  Florizel  had  quar 
reled  with  me,  and  she  had  to  promise  everything 
before  I  would  come  out,  shivering,  and  exchange 
my  wreath  of  purple  lilies  and  my  dripping  silk 
en  drape — from  the  parlor  mantle-piece — for  my 
striped  gingham  suit.  Oh  well!  There  were  com 
pensations  for  not  being  Endymion.  If  a  person 
slept  all  the  time,  he  couldn't  have  any  memories. 
But  he  could  dream,  and  some  dreams,  I  reflected, 
were  far  better  than  most  realities. 

"You  are  the  god  of  music  and  poetry,  aren't 
you,  Apollo?"  The  Nice  Boy  was  polite.  "I 
wish  you  would  give  me  an  idea  or  two,  in  French, 
please.  Do  you  inspire  in  French?  Really?  Well, 
I  would  like  to  do  a  hymn  to  Diana,  if  you  will 
just  send  along  an  inspiration  the  next  time  I  go 
to  sleep." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  hardly  living  up 
to  the  reputation  of  the  person  who  was  sup 
posed  to  sleep  all  the  time." 

"But  the  moon  is  shining!"  said  he. 

"  The  moon,"  said  I,  "  has  been  known  to  have 
a  peculiar  effect." 

"  If  you  sleep  in  the  moonlight,  you  go  mad. 
A  man  told  me  so,"  said  round-eyed  Billy  Wright 
Jr. 

"A  man  who  would  sleep  when  he  might  stay 
awake  and  worship,  deserves  madness."  The  Nice 
Boy  was  heroic. 

"After  all,"  said  I,  "  everyone  is  mad  from 
everyone's  else  point  of  view.  Florizel  thinks  I 
am  mad  because  I  remember  more  than  she  does. 
You  think  I  am  mad  because  I  am  melancholy. 

39 


Florizel  thinks  you  are  mad  because  you  write 
verses.  I  think  you  are  mad  because  you  do 
anything  else.  You  think  Florizel  is  mad — " 

"  There  you  are  wrong,"  said  the  Nice  Boy. 
"  From  all  possible  points  of  view,  Miss  Florizel 
is  perfect." 

"  You  can't  deny  that  she  knows  too  much." 

"All  the  knowledge  that  a  pretty  woman  can 
acquire,  will  not  possibly  hurt  her,"  said  he  large 
ly.  Aha,  I  thought,  you  Nice  Boy,  you  would  bet 
ter  stick  to  your  verses.  Florizel  tip-tilted  her  nose 
ever  so  slightly.  Then  she  looked  at  me  kindly. 

"  Did  you  say  that  my  Nymphs  are  still  here, 
Apollo?" 

"  I  am  sure  they  are;  Billy  Wright  Jr.  has  seen 
them." 

"Here!"  The  Nice  Boy  peered  idiotically  into 
a  rose  bush.  "  Oh,  I  want  to  see  some  Nymphs 
— do  show  me !  " 

"  I  hope  you  remember  that  Diana  has  an  un 
pleasant  way  of  discouraging  intruders,"  I  warned 
him. 

"Oh  Apollo."  He  laughed  again.  "Apollo!  Of 
course  you  wouldn't  be  willing  to  admit  another 
god  to  your  sacred  groves!" 

"  Indeed,"  I  said  crossly,  "  I  have  a  very  small 
place  in  the  Garden.  Ask  Billy  Wright  Jr."  He 
did  so,  and  was  told, 

"  There  are  lots  of  People  here  besides  the 
Wood  People.  There  are  the  Elves  and  the  Fays 
and  the  Sprites  and  the  Fairies  from  home,  and 
all  the  Garden  Fairies,  like  the  Flowers  and  the 
Grasses,  and  the  Wiggle  Bugs  and  Creepy  Craw- 
leys.  " 

40 


"Ugh!"  The  Nice  Boy  shuddered.  "Who  are 
they?" 

"  Oh,  they  haven't  very  much  to  do.  Only  give 
bad  dreams  to  people  that  displease  the  Garden." 

"  Best  sleep  high,  Endymion,"  I  advised. 

"  I  don't  know  but  that  one  inspiration  is  as 
good  as  another!"  said  he. 

"  Why  do  you  think  I  am  mad,  Apollo?  "  asked 
Florizel. 

"  Because  you  ever  left  the  Garden." 

"  But  you  leave  it?  " 

"  Oh,  as  for  that — I  am  mad  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon!  " 

"  You  are  silly,"  said  Florizel.  There  was  a 
little  silence. 

"  They  are  just  as  blue,  Apollo !  "  said  Billy 
Wright  Jr.,  and  I  went  to  see  for  myself. 

The  White  Magic  Grandmother  came  out  and 
said  to  me, 

"  You  are  to  stop  till  the  first  train  in  the  morn 
ing,  my  boy,  and  Florizel  shall  sing  to  us  this 
evening."  Oh,  blessed  White  Magic  Grandmother, 
of  course  I  stopped! 


THE  THIRD  CHAPTER  INTRODUCES 
TUMULT,  VIOLENCE  AND  UTMOST 
CONFUSION  INTO  THE  MIDST  OF  A 
NIGHT  FILLED  WITH  GAY  MUSIC 


JLORIZEL  did  sing  to  us,  first  in  the 
music  room,  and  afterwards  on  the 
half-dark  veranda,  where  the  Nice 
Boy  and  I  could  smoke  the  very 
good  cigars  which  the  White  Magic 
Grandmother  keeps  for  such  as  we.  Florizel's 
voice  was  glad  and  free  and  oh,  so  sweet!  Some 
times  I  thought  it  held  a  thousand  memories  and 
ten  thousand  promises.  And  sometimes  I  thought 
that  it  held  the  wind  and  water  voices  of  that  far 
world  from  which  she  had  come;  and  sometimes 
she  was  a  wise  beautiful  lady  whom  I  did  not  un 
derstand  at  all.  The  light  from  the  house  came 
gently  sifted  through  the  curtained  doorways  and 
windows.  From  where  I  sat,  on  the  lowest  step, 
I  could  see  the  Grandmother  gently  swaying  back 
and  forth  in  the  shadow,  and  the  creak  of  her 
rocking  chair,  mingled  with  the  tinkle  of  ukulilis, 
made  me  very  sleepy.  "Till  we  meet  again!" 
sang  Florizel  and  the  Nice  Boy.  And  as  I  gazed 
away  into  the  dark  Garden,  I  felt  my  eye-lids 
prickle  with  the  sweet  sentimentality  of  it  all. 
They  sang  a  great  many  old  songs  such  as  are 
fit  for  twilight  singings.  The  soft  harmony  of 
their  voices  and  the  minor  strain  of  the  little  in- 


42 


struments  stirred  me  gently,  and  I  sang  with 
them.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  had  long  ago  said  his 
"  good-nights."  The  dark  reaches  of  the  Garden 
were  filled  with  voices  and  stirrings.  After  a 
time  I  became  aware  of  a  scarcely  suppressed  ex 
citement — a  tip-toe  of  interest — and  somebody 
pulled  my  sleeve. 

It  was  Billy  Wright  Jr.  in  his  blue  pajamas. 
He  beckoned  and  drew  me  away.  Florizel  and 
the  Nice  Boy  were  lost  to  all  but  their  song,  and 
the  Grandmother  placidly  rocked  in  the  shadow. 
Under  the  lemon-verbena,  Billy  Wright  Jr.  halt 
ed  me,  and  I  could  feel  his  tense  muscles  through 
his  clutching  hands. 

"The  gallery  is  full  of  Pixies!"  he  said,  "and 
there's  going  to  be  trouble.  Come  on!"  Away 
he  raced,  and  I  managed  to  keep  him  in  sight 
among  the  trees  and  bushes.  The  greatest  in 
terest  was  evident  all  over  the  Garden  and  I  was 
more  than  once  arrested  by  a  detaining  hand 
from  Rose  Bush  or  Vine,  and  had  to  stop  long 
enough  to  satisfy  some  fair  one's  curiosity. 

We  reached  the  Royal  Garden  and  slipped 
around  to  the  stage  door.  The  cast  was  in  a  pit 
iable  state  of  nervousness.  The  Butterflies  hud 
dled  in  fluttering  groups.  Only  Voix-belle  and 
Pink,  talking  in  one  of  the  entrances,  were  un 
mindful  of  anything  unusual  in  the  situation. 

Billy  Wright  Jr.  and  I  stood  where  we  could 
look  out  over  the  house.  The  intermission  be 
tween  the  first  and  second  acts  was  about  over. 
The  audience  seemed  quiet.  No  one  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  between  acts.  My  eye  sought  the 
gallery.  It  was  packed  to  the  roof  with  as  fine  a 

43 


set  of  Irish  lads  as  I  ever  saw.  The  O.  F.  M. 
was  on  guard  at  the  back,  pacing  up  and  down — 
but  with  difficulty.  He  is  very  pigeon-toed.  A 
couple  of  special  policemen  came  in  to  speak 
with  Billy  Wright  Jr.  They  were  fine,  showy  fel 
lows,  I  thought,  in  their  white  and  yellow  uni 
forms. 

"Veil!"  said  one  of  them,  slapping  Billy 
Wright  Jr/s  shoulder,  "  someding  iss  doing,  eh?" 

"  I  hope  not,  Officer.  1  hope  we  can  keep  them 
in  order.  "  Billy  Wright  Jr.  tried  to  be  cheerful. 

"  Oh,  veil,  ve  dry!  "  They  narrowed  their  small 
eyes  and  hissed  quietly. 

"  They've  been  very  quiet  during  the  intermis 
sion.  I  think  they  mean  to  stop  the  play  when 
Puck  goes  on.  Apollo  has  come  to  help  us.  Apol 
lo,  this  is  Officer  Erste  Cans;  and  Officer  Zweite 
Gans;  gentlemen,  Apollo."  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
turned  his  eye  to  the  house.  Erste  Gans  said  to 
me, 

"  Veil,  I'm  glad  to  meed  you."  Zweite  Gans  said 
"  Wie  geht's!  "  and  I  said  as  much.  The  orches 
tra  started  up  the  opening  chorus  of  the  second 
act  and  I  heard  the  Tree  Toad  calling  in  a  fright 
ened  voice, 

"Second  act!  Grasses  on  the  stage!  Mr.  Voix- 
belle!  Ladies  off  the  stage,  please!"  Voix-belle 
left  Pink  at  the  door  of  her  dressing  room  and 
came  down-stage  leisurely.  Trouble  was  a  thou 
sand  miles  away  from  him.  Erste  and  Zweite 
Gans  went  away  to  their  post  at  the  stage  en 
trance.  The  Tree  Toad  signaled  "all  right"  and 
up  went  the  curtain.  The  chorus  went  well.  Voix- 
belle  got  his  encore.  The  main  part  of  the  house, 

44 


I  think,  had  no  idea  that  anything  out  of  the  or 
dinary  was  afoot. 

I  stood  among  the  wings  and  watched.  Some 
one  behind  me  whispered, 

"  Qu'  as  tu  done?  "  and  some  one  else  answered, 

"Mais,  il  y  a  quelque  chose  la  haut,  je  pense!" 
I  turned  and  saw  two  little  Persons  who  were 
peering  curiously  up  at  the  gallery. 

"  Quoi  done?"  said  the  boy-one,  facing  around 
at  me.  "Ah!  C'est  M'sieu  Apollo!  M'sieu,  I 
make  you  my  bow!  I  am  that  Pierrot  for  whom 
you  make  the  play.  Accep'  my  thanks,  M'sieu, 
my  many  thanks,  mille,  mille  fois!  "  Then  the 
girl-one  danced  up,  and, 

Be  so  good  as  to  accep'  my  thanks,  also, 
M'sieu!"  she  said,  "an'  my  bows!"  She  made 
them,  very  pretty  ones. 

"  Mile.  Pierrette,"  said  Pierrot,  presenting  me. 
Then  I  assured  them  that  it  was  I  who  stood 
obliged,  and  to  them.  That  my  writing  a  play  for 
them  was  simply  an  acknowledgment  of  the  debt 
of  gratitude  I  owed  them. 

"  Long,  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  child,  Mad'moi- 
selle,  and  M'sieu,  the  most  treasured  of  my  pos 
sessions  was  a  certain  blue-bound  book  of  verses. 
French  verses,  Mad'moiselle,  such  as  the  children 
sing  in  Provence.  And  illustrations,  M'sieu, 
quaint  colored  plates,  made  by  a  half  blind  old 
man  in  a  little  shop  in  the  Rue  Felice."  They 
were  looking  at  me  with  starry  eyes.  "  Those  little 
verses,  Mad'moiselle,  and  those  quaint  pictures, 
M'sieu,  concerned  themselves  with  the  charming 
adventures  of  one  Pierrot  and  his  play-fellow, 
Pierrette."  Pierrette  clapped  her  hands  softly. 

45 


"Ah,  I  know  that  blue  book,  moi!  "  I  love  those 
vers — and  those  picture'  M'sieu,  are  they  like?" 

"  So  like,  Mad'moiselle,  that  I  greet  you  as 
old  friends.  But  one  understands  that  the  old 
man  was  half  blind!  " 

"  M'sieu  is  kind!  " 

"  Grateful,  Mad'moiselle  and  M'sieu,  for  the 
very  many  happy  days  spent  in  merry  adventure 
with  you." 

"  So  long  ago!  "  laughed  Pierrette.  "  Mon  ami, 
did  you  hear?  He  said  'Long,  long  ago,  when  I 
was  a  child!'  How  old  you  think  us,  M'sieu?" 

"Mad'moiselle,  as  old  as  Youth!"  And  her 
laugh  was  my  justification. 

"But  the  book,"  said  she,  "you  have  it  still?" 

"  No,  Mad'moiselle.  When  I  left  my  home  to 
go  to  a  school,  I  gave  my  dearest  possessions — 
that  blue  book  and  some  others — to  one  who  had 
loved  them  as  I  had." 

"Ah,  those  school!"  exclaimed  Pierrette.  "It 
is  where  one  teach'  the  children  forget  us!  But 
your  friend,  M'sieu,  she  has  kept  the  blue  book 
for  you,  through  all  these  year!  It  is  so?" 

"  She  also  went  to  school,  Mad'moiselle.  I  am 
afraid  that  she  has  forgotten — the  blue  book." 

"Helas!  Pauvre  M'sieu  Apollo!  I  should  like 
to  see  that  old  blue  book,  moi!  " 

"  That  should  be  easy,  Mad'moiselle.  It  must 
be  in  the  Play  Room  in  the  Grandmother's  house. 
Or  perhaps  it  is  stowed  away  with  Florizel's  play 
things." 

"Eh  bien!  We  will  find  it,  per'aps.  Pauvre 
M'sieu  Apollo!"  She  linked  her  arm  through 
Pierrot's.  "  Mon  ami,  don'  you  think  this  Mees 

46 


Florizel  might  remember — sometime,  hein?" 
Pierrot,  over  whose  rosy  countenance  a  thou 
sand  expressions  of  delight,  interest  and  sym 
pathy  had  played  as  he  listened,  winked  at  me, 
and  said, 

"C'est  possible!" 

A  hideous  uproar  broke  out  in  the  theatre. 
What  was  it?  All  the  Pixies  shouting  at  once 
some  outlandish  thing,  half  chant  and  half  college- 
yell.  On  the  stage,  poor  Puck  was  singing  man 
fully,  but  not  a  note  of  him  could  be  heard. 

"  Quel  bruit  affreux!"  said  Pierrette,  her  hands 
over  her  ears. 

"  Ces  diables  des  Pixies!"  said  Pierrot.  "But 
what  would  you?  This  poor  Puck,  his  song'  are 
so  veree  bad!  "  We  couldn't  help  admiring  Puck, 
though,  all  of  us.  He  bore  himself  jauntily  in 
what  must  have  been  a  most  trying  situation,  to 
say  the  least  of  it.  He  went  through  every  antic 
he  knew  or  could  invent.  He  made  wry  faces 
and  twiddled  his  ears.  His  lips  were  moving, 
and  I  guessed  that  he  was  shouting  himself 
hoarse.  The  noise  in  front  increased.  The  more 
timid  of  the  audience  were  crowding  the  exits. 
Even  those  who  still  remained  seated  were  be 
ginning  to  look  to  their  wraps.  It  was  the  first 
time  this  sort  of  thing  had  happened  since  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  had  taken  over  the  management,  and 
they  half  expected  him  to  restore  order  in  some 
way.  My  presence  was  known,  of  course,  and 
seemed  to  impress  everyone  but  the  Pixies.  These 
had  ceased  their  chanting  and  were  now  calling 
out  according  to  their  individual  inspirations.  We 
could  hear  cries  of  "Go  home!"  "Be  aff  wid 

47 


yez!  "  "  Ow  my,  ow  my!  "  "  Dhry  upp!  "  "  To  th' 
pond  wid  him!"  Cat-calls,  yowls,  jeers,  shrieks, 
piercing  whistles  and  every  manner  of  noise, 
abominable  and  insulting,  was  hurled  at  the  target 
on  the  stage.  But  Puck  would  not  desert  the 
post.  He  had  ceased  his  attempts  at  singing,  but 
stood  and  faced  the  rowdies  gloomily.  The  or 
chestra  huddled  together  like  frightened  creatures, 
as  I  dare  say  they  were,  but  undecided  whether  to 
leave. 

"Come  out  of  that,  Puck!"  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
called  from  the  wings. 

"  Come  off,  you  idiot!  "  called  Voix-belle  from 
the  other  side,  seeing  that  Puck  remained  with  his 
puzzled  eyes  on  the  gallery.  One  or  two  rocks 
came  flying,  then  a  shower  of  mud  balls.  The 
orchestra  dived  out  of  danger. 

"  Puck!  "  shouted  Billy  Wright  Jr.  "  You  can't 
do  anything  with  them,  come  off!  "  Then,  as  Puck 
made  no  sign  of  having  heard  him,  "  Lower  the 
curtain!"  But  the  Person  whose  business  it  was 
to  do  that,  was,  I  have  no  doubt,  watching  de 
velopments  with  an  exclusive  interest.  At  any 
rate,  the  curtain  was  not  lowered;  and  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  and  Voix-belle,  rushing  on  from  either 
side,  picked  up  the  bewildered  comedian  and  bore 
him  into  safety. 

The  commotion  rose  to  frenzy.  The  stage  was 
heaped  with  the  refuse  of  the  pond. 

"  Come  out,  Pajamas,"  one  of  them  shouted, 
"an'  let's  have  a  shot  at  yez!"  Then  they  all 
yelled,  "Pajamas!  Pajamas!  Paja-a-a-a-amas! " 

"  Let  me  talk  to  them, "  I  said  to  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  "  The  rest  of  you  get  the  girls  out  safely." 

48 


THE    TAILOR-MADE    NASTURTIUM    GIRLS 
They  would  not  lower   their  umbrellas. 


Voix-belle  had  Pink,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  already 
at  the  stage  door,  and  Oiseau  d'Or  was  with  them. 

"  Oiseau  dear!"  I  heard  Pink  say,  "I'm  so 
happy!"  Oiseau  d'Or  kissed  her. 

"You  darling!"  she  said.  She  stood  there  a 
little  sadly  as  Voix-belle  took  Pink  away.  Then 
Puck  and  Billy  Wright  Jr.  bundled  her  off,  and 
the  Grasses  followed,  each  with  a  Butterfly.  I 
stepped  out  on  to  the  stage.  The  Pixies,  who  had 
begun  to  tear  up  the  house,  desisted  when  they 
saw  me.  The  theatre  was  quite  empty,  below 
the  gallery.  I  looked  for  the  O.  F.  M.  He  was 
scurrying  about  apparently  in  the  greatest  excite 
ment.  But  I  could  not  hear  what  he  said. 

"'Tis  the  handsome  man!"  shouted  some  Pixie, 
and  then  everybody  yelled,  "Apollo!  Apollo!  Apol 
lo!"  Their  yell-leader  mounted  in  front  of  them 
brandishing  his  big  stick,  and  they  all  brandished 
their  big  sticks  and  gave  three  ear-splitting  cheers. 
Then  they  quieted  and  I  began  to  speak. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  gallery,  — "  The  applause 
deafened  me  and  I  waited.  "  Gentlemen  of  the 
gallery — gallery  gods — "  There  was  another  roar 
in  which  I  could  distinguish  "  Musha,  musha!" 
"A-a-a-ah!"  "Blatherskite!"  "  T'row  'im  in  th' 
pond!"  "Oh,  wurra,  wurra!"  and  other  remarks. 
I  made  unsuccessful  attempts  at  continuing  the 
little  speech,  the  main  points  of  which  I  had  gone 
over  in  my  mind.  With  a  judicious  interlarding 
of  blarney,  it  should  have  pacified  them  in  a  very 
short  time — if  they  had  listened.  They  did  not. 
Apparently  they  would  not.  I  lost  my  temper. 

"Be  quiet,  you  little  green  devils!"  I  shouted 
with  all  my  voice.  Instantly  I  was  deluged  with 


49 


every  unspeakable  thing  that  may  come  from  the 
bottom  of  an  old  pond.  I  plowed  my  way  over 
them  to  the  middle  of  the  house,  intending  to 
climb  into  the  gallery  and  chastise  the  offenders 
bodily.  I  heard  a  cry  of  "Hourra!  Ganse!"  and 
Erste  and  Zweite  poured  through  the  main  en 
trance  with  at  least  fifty  others  of  the  special 
police.  At  the  same  time,  a  shout  of  "  Hoch  die 
Ganse!"  rang  out  above,  as  Billy  Wright  Jr.  and 
more  policemen  appeared  at  the  back  of  the  gal 
lery.  We  had  the  Pixies  fairly  surrounded.  But 
they  outnumbered  us.  They  poured  over  the 
gallery-railing  into  the  main  theatre,  and  there 
we  had  it.  I  must  say  that  those  Pixies  could 
fight.  So  could  the  police,  and  Voix-belle  and  Pier 
rot  and  Puck  and  Dan  de  Lion  and  Tassel  Top. 
and  all  the  other  Grasses.  It  was  noisy.  They 
spoke  in  their  native  tongues,  and,  beside  myself, 
I  believe  that  Billy  Wright  Jr.  was  the  only  one 
who  fought  with  his  mouth  shut. 

Slowly,  they  forced  a  way  to  the  door.  The 
poor  Grasses  went  down  before  them  as  they  do 
before  the  sweep  of  a  summer  storm.  I  know 
that  some  of  the  Pixies  were  pretty  badly  beaten 
up.  The  O.  F.  M.  did  a  good  deal  of  damage, 
and  the  others  were  no  less  valiant.  I  spanked 
every  Pixie  that  I  could  get  across  my  knee.  But 
the  odds  were  against  our  party  and  after  all,  it 
was  Puck  who  executed  the  coup  to  which  we 
owed  our  final  triumph.  I  saw  him  mount  a  tree, 
and  heard  his  shrill  whistle,  half  scream,  while 
he  knocked  frantically  on  the  tree-bark  as  though 
it  were  somebody's  door.  I  thought  that  the  ex 
citement  had  made  him  a  little  daft.  But  present- 

50 


ly,  came  buzzing  and  swarming,  an  army  of  sleepy 
bees  and  settled  upon  the  Pixies.  A  howl,  dif 
ferent  from  any  noise  which  had  filled  that  night, 
and  louder  than  all,  rose  and  fled  with  the  Pixies, 
and  was  quenched,  bubbling,  in  the  waters  of 
their  home  pond.  The  disturbance  was  ended. 

We  went  back  to  the  theatre.     It  was  wrecked. 

"  You  will  have  to  close  up  for  repairs,"  I 
told  Billy  Wright  Jr.  Then  Puck  came  up  and 
we  congratulated  him  upon  his  clever  idea.  But 
he  seemed  troubled,  and  quite  unlike  himself. 

"  It  was  funny  to  see  them  run,"  he  said  doubt 
fully,  looking  around  with  an  uncertain  smile. 

"It  was  mighty  good:  to  see  them  run!"  said 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  heartily.  Puck  shifted  uneasily 
from  foot  to  foot. 

"There  isn't  anything  I  can  do  there,  is  there?" 
With  a  nod  toward  the  demolished  theatre. 

"  Nothing  to  do  now,"  said  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
"  We  may  as  well  all  go  home."  Puck  nodded. 

"  Well,  good  night,  all,"  he  said,  with  his  un 
certain  smile,  and  darted  away  into  the  dark. 

Erste  and  Zweite  Cans  had  gathered  their  de 
moralized  forces,  and  they  came  up  to  us,  in  ele 
gant  order,  though  with  the  signs  of  the  combat 
upon  them.  They  were  hissing  hotly,  for  their 
rage  cooled  slowly.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  thanked 
them  for  their  good  work,  and  dismissed  them 
with  the  hope  that  there  would  be  no  more 
trouble.  They  marched  away,  still  hissing.  And 
when  they  halted,  further  on,  and  broke  ranks, 
there  arose  such  a  discussion,  as,  I  have  no  doubt, 
caused  the  peaceful  dwellers  in  the  Garden  to 
wonder  whether  the  night  was  to  have  no  quiet. 

51 


Jrf 


Voix-belle,  Honey  Suckle,  Pierrot,  Dan  de  Lion 
and  Tassel  Top  bade  us  "  good  night  "  and  hur 
ried  off.  The  Grasses,  very  much  crumpled,  but 
still  jaunty,  went  after  them.  But  the  O.  F.  M. 
refused  to  leave  the  theatre.  I  gathered  that  he 
held  himself  responsible  for  the  disaster,  although 
he  could  not  have  prevented  it,  had  he  been  a 
flock  of  parrots.  And  he  was  only  one.  after 
all,  we  explained  to  him.  But,  the  orderly  con 
duct  of  the  theatre  being  his  especial  charge,  he 
alone  was  to  blame  for  the  evening's  row.  So  he 
thought.  And  he  was  determined  to  remain  on 
guard  till  we  should  relieve  him  in  the  morning. 
We  pointed  out  to  him  that  there  remained  noth 
ing  to  guard,  but  he  would  not  be  persuaded.  And 
so  we  left  him. 

The  Garden  had  resumed  its  wonted  occupa 
tions  after  the  quieting  of  the  disturbance.  Along 
the  pond's  edge,  among  the  reeds,  I  heard  the 
Naiads  singing.  In  the  grove,  indistinct  figures 
moved  to  the  sound  of  pipes,  and  laughter  came 
from  the  fountain's  brink.  We  did  not  speak  at 
all,  but  went  silently,  listening  to  what  the  Gar 
den  told  us.  Then  we  both  halted,  because  very 
near  us,  in  the  dark,  a  voice  began  to  sing.  It 
was  a  slightly  nasal  voice,  with  something  old  in 
it,  and  something  very  young.  We  stood  where 
we  were,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  singer,  and 
this  is  what  he  sang: 

"  Tu  as  une  si  belle  voix, 

Oiseau  d'Or, 

Tu  chantes,  tu  ris,  et  moi, 
Je  t'adore! 

52 


Tu  as  les  si  beaux  yeux, 

Oiseau  d'Or, 
Vois  mon  triste  cceur, 

Je  t'implore!  " 

We  moved  on  as  silently  as  might  be. 

"  I  should  know  that  voice,"  I  said  to  Billy 
Wright  Jr. 

"Don't  you?"  said  he. 

"By  jove!"  I  said.     "Is  it — can  it  be — Puck?" 

"  Oiseau  d'Or  lives  in  that  jasmine,"  said  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  We  went  on.  I  felt  sorry  for  Puck, 
for  some  reason,  and  my  sorrow  tinged  the  night. 
The  soft  tinklings,  pipings,  laughter,  songs,  all 
seemed  to  me  to  have  a  little  catch  of  sadness  in 
them.  I  thought  of  Voix-belle,  wrapping  his  cloak 
about  Pink — happy  Pink — happy  Voix-belle — and 
I  sighed.  I  thought  of  Oiseau  d'Or,  as  she  had 
looked  when  she  watched  them,  and  I  stopped 
breathing  for  a  second.  I  thought  of  arch  Pier 
rette,  how  she  had  said,  "  Don't  you  think  this 
Mees  Florizel  might  remember  sometime — hein?" 
and  my  heart  went  thumping.  I  thought  of  Puck's 
uncertain  smile  when  he  left  us,  and  I  sighed 
again.  I  thought  of  Puck  back  there,  singing  a 
serenade — Puck.  Ah,  I  was  sorry  for  him! 

We  found  the  house  all  quiet.  I  went  in  through 
Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  room,  and  found  my  own  room 
fragrant  with  the  honey-suckle  that  climbs  past 
the  window.  I  leaned  out  to  get  a  last  deep 
breath  of  the  night,  and,  far  and  faint,  I  heard  a 
somewhat  nasal  voice,  with  something  old  in  it, 
and  something  very  young,  singing. 

53 


"  Dans  1'abime  mysterieux, 
Au  fond  de  mon  coeur, 
Je  vois  tes  yeux, 
Si   beaux! 

Dans  1'ombre  de  1'haut  bois 
Qui   chant   en   soi, 
J'entends  ta  voix, 
Oiseau!  " 

He  may  be  silly,  but  I  can't  help  liking  the  fel 
low. 


54 


THE  FOURTH  CHAPTER  FINDS  THE 
THREADS  OF  ONE  COMEDY  HOPE 
LESSLY  TANGLED,  AND  LEAVES 
ANOTHER  AT  A  HAPPIER  CLIMAX 


N  the  radiant  morning  I  walked 
through  the  Garden  with  Florizel. 
The  little  People  of  the  flowers  and 
bushes  gave  us  joyous  greeting,  but 
Florizel  seemed  not  to  notice.  The 
Lady  in  the  fountain  threw  kisses  to  her,  and  the 
waving  draperies  left  a  spray  on  my  shoulder. 
When  we  sat  ourselves  down  on  a  mossy  bank, 
under  the  greenwood  tree,  Florizel  gave  me  a  re 
view  of  several  lectures  on  something  learned;  and 
I  watched  the  swaying  of  the  branches,  where  cer 
tain  ones  were  peering  out  at  us.  One  of  these 
came  quite  boldly  into  view.  He  had  a  spotted 
skin  about  him,  and  his  brows  were  bound  with 
wild  grape — that  grows  at  the  uttermost  part  of 
the  Garden.  He  carried  a  reed-pipe,  and  though 
he  came  slowly  and  uncertain  of  his  greeting,  I 
knew  him  for  the  leader  of  the  forest  revels.  He 
was  gazing  at  Florizel. 

"  It  is  Diana!  "  I  said,  when  he  still  seemed  puz 
zled. 

"To  whom  did  you  speak?"  Florizel  stopped 
somewhere  in  lecture  three.  Several  of  the  others 
had  come  out  from  the  trees  and  stood  waiting, 
as  they  used. 

55 


"  They  are  waiting  for  us,"  I  told  Florizel. 

"Who?" 

"  Don't  you  remember — the  Hamadryads,  your 
Nymphs,  and  the  Fauns — all  of  them?" 

"Where  are  they?"  Her  voice  reminded  me 
of  the  nurse's  when  you  are  sick.  I  waved  to 
the  wistful  People,  standing  a  little  away  from 
us. 

"Here!" 

"Do  you  see  them?" 

"  Don't  you?  "  I  asked  her  in  dismay;  and  when 
she  looked  at  me,  I  saw  that  she  was  quite  blind 
to  them.  They  saw  it,  too,  and  they  melted  back 
into  the  leaves,  wonderingly.  One  paused,  hitched 
his  spotted  mantle  and  waved  his  hand.  I  thought 
his  vanishing  smile  held  a  promise. 

"Why  don't  you  grow  up?"  Florizel  asked 
me. 

"Is  it  worth  while?"  I  asked  her,  and  she 
scorned  me. 

"Why  don't  you  do  something  worth  while? 
You  can't  always  dream.  Why  don't  you  work?" 

"  My  plays — "  I  faltered. 

"Oh  your  plays!  What  do  they  amount  to? 
That  sort  of  thing  isn't  work — it  is  just  your 
make-believe,  and  you've  been  at  it  ever  since 
I've  known  you." 

"How  long  is  that,  Florizel?" 

"  Why,  ever  since  you  were  you — nearly." 

"  And  you  still  have  hope!  "  I  marveled.  Again 
she  scorned  me.  She  climbed  into  the  big  swing 
that  has  swung  there  ever  since  there  was  a  Gar 
den  around  that  tree. 

"  If  you  must  write,  why  don't  you  write  phi- 

56 


losophy?"  All  her  ribbons  and  laces  fluttered  as 
she  swung  slowly  past  me. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  if  I  did,  it  would  only 
be  another  kind  of  make-believe?" 

"  Then  write  history." 

"  I  could  do  that.  I  know  a  lot  about  the  his 
tory  of  a  girl  and  a  boy  who  lived  in  this  Garden. 
Originally,  the  girl  was  a  flower,  and  bloomed 
in  the  sea;  and  a  certain  Captain  came  along  in 
his  ship,  and  gathered  the  Flower  and  its  mother, 
and  the  two  of  them  came  to  live  in  the  Garden, 
and  they  brought  all  kinds  of  Magic,  except  the 
Black.  And  originally  the  boy  came  over  to  visit. 
But  afterwards  he  forgot  that  he  had  ever  had 
any  other  home,  and  stopped  in  the  Garden.  Do 
you  remember  how  we  used  to  be  Pierrette  and 
Pierrot,  before  you  found  the  Classic  Myths  and 
turned  us  into  gods?"  For  just  a  moment  Flori- 
zel  held  her  breath  and  I  knew  that  the  right 
word  would  bring  back  to  her  all  the  precious 
knowledge  that  she  had  lost  at  school.  But  while 
I  wondered  vainly  after  that  word,  she  sighed  and 
slipped  out  of  the  swing. 

"  I  must  not  neglect  my  guest,"  said  she. 

"  I   can  write   French  verses,"   I   told   her. 

"Ah,"  said  scornful  Florizel,  "  that  boy  is  an 
engineer  by  profession!  Oh,  aren't  you  ever  go 
ing  to  be  useful?  Aren't  you  going  to  add  your 
part  to  the  world's  knowledge?" 

"Alas,  for  the  world's  knowledge!  Do  you 
think  that  the  world  will  ever  be  as  wise  as  it  was 
when  we  made  a  wish  to  a  great  fluffy  thistle- 
seed,  and  sent  it  over  the  back  fence  to  Fairyland? 
Wonderful,  wise  lady!  What  can  you  give  to 

57 


"-i 


the  world  that  will  make  up  for  what  you  lost 
it,  when  you  forgot  to  look  for  the  first  star; 
when  you  forgot  what  to  say  to  a  dandelion-top? 
And  I,  I  can  never  hope  again  to  be  able  to  do 
as  much  good  as  I  did  when  I  stood  in  the  Fairy 
Ring  of  toad-stools  and  wished  that  you  would 
be  cured  of  the  mumps,  so  that  we  could  play 
at  being  gods  again." 

"  Seriously,"  said  Florizel,  "  why,  why,  won't 
you  do  something  practical?  Oh,  I  can't  tell 
you  how  I  love  my  work!  And  all  because  it  is 
work!" 

"  I  went  to  college,  too,"  I  defended,  "  but 
you  take  it  seriously." 

"Ah  yes!  Because  I  must.  We  are  limited,  we 
women.  But  you — you  could  do  real  things,  if 
you  chose! " 

"  Go  away.  This  isn't  your  Garden.  You  aren't 
Florizel.  You  are  a  changeling,  and  I  can  see 
through  you.  Why  should  you  come  to  the  House 
of  Dreams?  Go  away  and  let  my  old  playfellow 
come  back.  She  wouldn't  treat  me  cruelly  be 
cause  I  had  kept  my  childhood's  heart  for  her. 
You  had  best  go  quietly  and  at  once,  or  I  shall 
have  to  exorcise  you!"  I  was  stern;  and  Flori 
zel  looked  at  me  sidelong,  and  smiled  a  little  un 
certainly. 

We  came  to  the  door  of  the  Green  House. 

"  Let's  go  in  and  see  what  new  things  Pan  has 
found,"  said  Florizel.  And  then  her  eyes  defied 
me.  I  followed  silently  into  the  dim  odorous 
place.  But  my  heart  beat  absurdly  because  she 
had  remembered  the  gardener  by  the  name  our 
childhood  had  given  to  the  god  of  all  out-doors. 


58 


Perhaps  the  exorcism  was  working,  and  a  little  of 
the  old  Florizel  had  come  back? 

There  are  not  many  flowers  that  can  not  live 
in  the  air  of  the  Garden,  so  the  Green  House  is 
filled  with  the  most  rare  and  fragile  of  the  king 
dom.  There  are  the  souls  of  languid  poets  who 
have  dreamed  away  their  lives  over  the  beauty  of 
a  single  word.  There  are  the  passionate  earth- 
loving  pagans  whose  spirits  still  cling  to  some 
form  of  perishable  loveliness.  Pale,  slender  art 
ists  lavish  their  multicolored  souls  in  wondrous 
interweavings  of  leaf  and  bud  and  bell.  In  the 
inmost  part  of  the  humid  place  is  a  fountain;  and 
there  a  laughing  god  pours  water  from  a  lily- 
cup  over  his  green  head.  The  gold-fish  dart  about 
his  feet  and  tall  dank  green  things  cling  to  his 
knees.  As  Florizel  and  I  stood  before  him,  I 
saw  the  lily-cup  was  gone  and  the  slow  water 
trickled  down  his  face  and  over  his  moss-grown 
breast,  turning  his  laughter  to  weeping  as  he 
stretched  forth  empty,  impotent  hands. 

"  No  wonder  you  cry!  "  I  said  to  him.  Florizel, 
who  had  been  counting  the  stamens  of  a  wonder 
ful  Arabian  bell  that  grew  near,  looked  up  at  the 
god. 

"  They  have  taken  away  his  flower,"  she  said. 

"  Yes!  "    She  seemed  surprised  at  my  gloom. 

"  But  they  will  bring  a  new  one."  We  went 
on.  At  the  door  I  paused  and  looked  back  at  the 
weeping  face  and  bereft  hands  of  the  god. 

"  He  will  never  be  the  same,"  I  mourned. 

"  The  whole  thing  should  be  taken  out,  and  a 
new  one,  of  marble,  put  in  its  place,"  said  Flori 
zel. 

59 


"Yes!"  I  said.  "Turn  the  old  gods  out.  They 
have  had  their  day."  Florizel  was  silent.  I  knew 
that  she  was  scorning  me. 

We  went  back  to  the  house.  I  spent  an  hour 
reading  Carlyle  to  the  White  Magic  Grandmother. 
And  when  she  went  to  see  some  people  who  had 
called,  and  I  was  left  to  my  own  devices,  I  went 
upstairs  tip-toe;  up  more  stairs  tip-toe,  and  along 
the  hall,  ever  so  softly,  until  I  stood  before  the 
closed  door  of  the  Play  Room.  It  was  very  still 
at  the  top  of  the  house.  The  high  branches  of 
the  pines  went  swaying  past  the  hall  windows. 
But  even  the  wind  talked  in  whispers  up  there; 
and  I  heard  the  hushed  footfalls  of  my  memories. 
I  stood  there  with  a  frightened  heart.  Suppose, 
oh,  suppose  that  anything  in  that  room  should  be 
changed!  I  could  not  bear  to  have  that  changed, 
too I  was  going  away  again.  But  in 
stead,  I  went  to  look  out  of  the  hall  window,  at 
the  swaying  pines  and  the  smiling  Garden  below. 
All  the  world  rejoiced  in  the  golden  morning. 
And  all  my  memories  put  out  shadowy  hands  and 
pulled  me  back  to  the  Play  Room  door. 

It  was  such  a  big,  quiet  room — and  it  was  not 
changed  at  all!  The  sunlight  through  the  tripped 
shutters  illumined  the  same  red  roses  in  the 
carpet.  And  in  the  shadows  I  found  all  the  old 
friends;  the  pictures,  toys  and  books,  and  the  old 
square  piano  upon  which  Florizel  and  I  had  prac 
ticed  our  scales.  "  Oh,  Florizel,"  I  thought, 
"  what  magic  can  there  be  stronger  than  all  this, 
that  has  changed  you  from  the  dear  child  you 
were?  Dear  Room,  what  can  you  think  of  a  prac 
tical  Florizel — a  Florizel  with  no  memories?" 

60 


So  I  may  have  mourned  for  ten  seconds,  or  an 
hour,  when  the  whisper  of  a  turned  page  caught 
my  dreaming  ear.  In  a  corner,  someone  in  white 
was  sitting  on  the  floor,  and  her  lap  was  filled 
with  books.  But  one  of  them  had  all  her  atten 
tion — an  old  book,  bound  in  blue. 

"  Florizel!  "  The  word  sang  itself  from  my  glad 
heart.  She  did  not  turn  to  me,  but  sighed  and 
closed  the  book. 

"  I  hoped  you  would  go  away  without  seeing 
me,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  come  to  exorcise  me?  " 

"What  book  is  that?"  She  pretended  not  to 
know  which  I  meant.  And  when  I  took  it  from 
her  hands  she  laughed.  "Oh,  that  old  book! 
French  verses.  And  aren't  the  illustrations  ridicu 
lous?  There  has  been  such  vast  improvement  in 
the  matter  of  illustrating  books."  I  laid  the  book 
down  again.  She  went  to  the  door  and  I  fol 
lowed.  She  looked  back.  "  The  place  is  dusty," 
she  said.  "  It  must  be  cleaned."  I  closed  the  door 
gently  behind  us,  and  we  went  down  stairs  to 
lunch. 

When  I  went  away  to  town,  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
came  with  me  to  the  gate. 

"  When  you  have  time,"  I  said,  "  I  wish  you 
would  look  after  your  Aunt  Florizel.  She  is  in  a 
bad  way." 

«SS?      38?      <56T 

For  two  weeks  I  was  very  unhappy.  The  last 
play  I  had  written — not  the  one  for  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  but  another,  for  a  manager  in  New  York — 
this  last  play  was  so  bad  that  it  wouldn't  do  at 
all.  Not  the  beautiful  costumes  nor  the  very  beau 
tiful  ladies  nor  an  unusually  funny  man  could  in- 


61 


duce  an  audience  to  sit  through  what  we  had 
all  thought  was  a  fairly  good  show.  My  little 
gods  forgot  me,  and  I  wandered  about  feeling 
very  woe-begone.  Then  there  arrived  a  letter 
from  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

My  dear  Apollo: 

We  are  very  busy  building  a  new  theatre 
where  the  old  one  used  to  be.  I  wish  you 
were  here.  Everyone  works  all  the  time.  My 
Grandmother  has  given  me  a  new  book  that 
was  my  Aunt  Florizel's  when  she  was  little. 
They  found  lots  of  them  in  the  Play  Room 
and  Aunt  Florizel  kept  most  of  them  for  her 
self.  I  think  she  has  too  many  books,  the 
man  who  was  here  when  you  were  sent  her  a 
book  that  he  made  up.  Puck  is  sick,  I  think. 
O.  F.  M.  is  calling  me.  I  hope  you  will  come 
back  soon. 

BILLY  WRIGHT  JR. 

P.   S. — The  book  is  Mother  Goose  with  pic 
tures. 

B.  W.  Jr. 

Although  I  was  glad  to  hear  from  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  I  did  not  feel  very  much  cheered.  I  won 
dered  what  books  Florizel  had  discovered  in  the 
Play  Room,  that  could  possibly  interest  her.  No 
doubt  the  man  was  the  Nice  Boy,  and  the  book 
he  had  given  Florizel  was  more  of  his  excellent 
French  verses.  Then  my  little  gods  awoke.  One 
of  them  suggested  that  if  books  pleased  Florizel, 
books  were  easily  made.  Not  French  verses.  Not 
plays,  but  what  she  herself  had  suggested — phi- 

62 


losophy.  History,  I  reflected,  would  take  time, 
since  one  had  to  know  things,  and  read  parch 
ments  and  dig  in  ruins,  to  make  it  authentic.  But 
philosophy!  What  undergraduate  has  not  a  Phi 
losophy?  So  I  made  a  philosophy  for  Florizel 
and  took  it  to  a  man  I  know  who  makes  little 
books  by  hand.  He  illuminated  it  and  decorated 
it.  and  printed  it  on  satiny  paper.  He  inscribed 
it  to  Diana  and  bound  it  in  a  wonderful  soft 
leather  cover.  "  Philosophy  "  it  said  on  the  out 
side,  and  on  the  first  page,  "  Nothing  is  real  but 
the  make-believe."  And  on  every  page  after  that, 
something  to  prove  it.  There  was  only  one  book 
made  and  there  would  never  be  another  like  it. 
I  wrapped  it  up  and  sent  it  to  Florizel. 

I  was  writing  some  new  scenes  for  the  bad 
play,  when  another  letter  came  from  Billy  Wright 
Jr. 

My  dear  Apollo: 

We  put  on  the  new  play  last  night  and  it 
is  pretty  good,  not  the  one  you  wrote  be 
cause  we  want  to  keep  that  till  you  come  back 
so  you  can  help.  This  is  out  of  "  Mother 
Goose  "  about  the  Frog  who  would  awooing 
go,  after  the  Lily  White  Duck  came  and  gob 
bled  him  up.  Aunt  Florizel  came  and  talked 
to  me  to-day.  She  told  me  about  those  Peo 
ple  in  the  trees  and  the  one  in  the  fountain. 
She  told  me  they  lived  a  long  time  ago  in 
a  place  over  the  sea  and  they  aren't  alive 
any  more  because  nobody  believes  in  them. 
Isn't  that  funny?  She  told  me  there  are  lots 
finer  People  than  Fairies  and  maybe  I'm 

63 


going  to  be  a  chemist  when  T  get  big.  You 
put  lots  of  things  in  a  glass  and  they  turn 
all  different  colors.  Why  don't  you  be  one? 
Maybe  I  might  be  an  engineer  and  make 
bridges.  My  Aunt  Florizel  says  everyone  has 
lots  of  respect  for  you  when  you  make 
bridges.  Puck  won't  act  any  more.  He  is 
call-boy  now  and  O.  F.  M.  is  the  Lily  White 
Duck.  I  could  play  if  I  had  my  tights.  My 
mother  had  a  party  and  she  sent  me  some 
of  the  candy.  My  father  has  a  new  part  with 
thirty  sides. 

I  hope  you  will  come  back  pretty  soon. 
BILLY  WRIGHT  JR. 

I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Billy  Wright  and  we  did 
up  the  tights  in  a  box  with  the  gauze  wings  and 
a  spangled  veil  that  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers  had 
worn  when  she  played  the  Fairy  Queen,  and  we 
sent  them  to  Billy  Wright  Jr.  Then  I  went  away 
and  thought.  And  while  I  was  still  thinking, 
there  came  a  note  from  Florizel  thanking  me  for 
the  book — just  that.  And  there  was  another  letter 
from  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

My  dear  Apollo: 

My  mother  and  you  were  pretty  good,  I 
think  to  send  me  my  tights  and  wings  and 
the  spangled  veil  which  comes  in  handy.  I 
am  playing  comedy  lead  this  week  and  they 
like  it.  My  Aunt  Florizel  said  you  sent  her 
a  book  and  it  was  foolish  and  she  carries  it 
all  around  and  she  won't  let  that  man  see  it. 
He  said  was  it  nonsense  verse  and  she  said 

64 


no  it  was  in  English.  My  Aunt  Florizel  is  go 
ing  away  to  stop  with  the  sister  of  the  pro 
fessor  person  that  makes  colors  come  in  bot 
tles.  They  have  a  place  in  their  house  where 
they  make  things  and  find  out  what  is  in 
side  you  when  you  get  poisoned  and  may 
be  my  Aunt  Florizel  is  going  to  be  one.  She 
says  it  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the 
world.  Puck  is  still  sick.  Voix-belle  sings 
fine  but  Pink  isn't  very  good  any  more.  When 
you  come  back  we  will  put  on  your  play. 

BILLY  WRIGHT  JR. 

For  a  week  or  two  I  wrote  more  scenes  for 
the  bad  play.  Then  I  went  to  the  librarv  and 
read  history.  Then  I  packed  my  suit-case  and 
went  down  to  see  Billy  Wright  Jr.  The  White 
Magic  Grandmother  said  that  I  might  stop  until 
I  felt  quite  better. 

38?      «56?       <5S^ 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,  Apollo,"  said  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  "  that  being  properly  dressed  makes  a  lot  of 
difference  to  a  fellow."  I  told  him  that  a  great 
many  people  would  agree  with  him. 

"  Since  I've  had  my  tights,"  he  skinned  the 
cat  thoughtfully  and  rested  on  the  pole.  "  Things 
have  been  a  lot  different.  I  got  a  notice  from 
Court  to-day." 

"  From  —  from  His  Majesty!  " 

"Well,  no!  But  from  Pas  du  Tout,  the  Prime 
Minister.  He  wanted  to  know  all  about  us.  You 
see  he  couldn't  notice  us  until  the  best  People 
here  in  the  Garden  sent  him  word  of  us.  And  I 
knew  all  along  that  the  best  People  didn't  come. 


65 


'\  '"//  sT  t 

-^      /A    V    '     -' 

.  w/t'^*'    V* 


i|i 

1  i  j*^ 


Puck  and  the  O.  F.  M.  used  to  let  on  that  the 
People  were  afraid  of  a  row  like  the  Pixies  made. 
But  we  all  knew  that  they  simply  wouldn't  stand 
for  a  fellow  in  pajamas.  It  was  too  unconven 
tional,  you  know!  " 

"And  the  tights  are  more  acceptable?"  I  really 
wanted  to  know. 

"  It's  the  only  thing  that  would,  Apollo.  And 
the  wings  just  got  'em!  " 

"  That's  funny.  Don't  they  know  that  the  wings 
are  not — so  to  speak — pars  corporis?"  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  eyed  me  curiously. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  they  mind  that,"  he  said 
largely.  "  You  see,  they  like  things  they  can't 
understand."  In  which  respect,  I  remarked,  they 
were  not  unlike  other  people. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  what  has  happened  to 
Puck?"  He  turned  puzzled  eyes  upon  me. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  confessed.  "  I  think  he's 
sick.  He  hasn't  tried  to  be  funny  since  the  row." 
We  went  down  and  got  into  the  boat.  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  trailed  his  hands  as  I  rowed  us  from 
the  landing,  past  the  papiri  out  to  the  open  pond. 
An  old  Pixie,  seated  on  a  damp  root,  took  his 
dudeen  out  of  his  mouth  and  waved  it  with  all 
friendliness. 

"How  arre  ye,  Billy  Wright  Jr.,  me  b'y5"  he 
hailed.  And  Billy  Wright  Jr.  responded  cheer 
fully. 

"No  more  trouble  from  that  quarter?"  I 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  Billy  Wright  Jr.  "  They've  formed 
a  company  and  elected  the  O.  F.  M.  Captain. 
They  call  the  pond  the  barracks,  and  they  drill 

66 


every  day.    They  and  the  special  police  are  going 
to  drill  for  a  banner." 

"You're  all  right,  my  friend!"  I  removed  my 
hat. 

"Oh,  well!"  he  said  modestly,  "the  O.  F.  M. 
helped  to  think  it  up." 

"  He's  a  good  color,  all  right."     But  I  reflect 
ed.      "  How   about    that   yellow    top-knot    of   his? 
I    should   have   thought   it    would    raise    difficul 
ties?" 

"  Oh,  I  made  him  up  before  we  went  to  talk  to 
them.  His  top-knot  is  white,  with  a  shamrock 
of  green."  I  rowed  in  silence  and  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  trailed  his  arms.  I  had  no  sufficient  com 
ment. 

Another  boat  put  out  from  shore.  It  had  a 
glittering  prow,  and  a  blue  awning  was  stretched 
above  it-  The  oarsman  was  a  slender  figure 
in  red.  As  they  came  near,  I  saw  that  it  was 
Puck.  Oiseau  d'Or  sat  in  the  stern,  amid  downy 
cushions,  scarfs  and  flowers.  Her  golden  bird 
perched  on  her  shoulder.  She  smiled  at  us  faint 
ly,  and  Puck,  with  his  face  of  a  thousand-year-old 
baby,  screwed  up  as  though  he  were  uncertain 
whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry,  nodded  to  us.  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  and  I  arose  and  saluted  them,  and 
looked  after  them  and  saw  how  the  scarfs  and 
flowers  trailed  behind  them  on  the  water.  Then 
we  came  to  shore  and  moored  our  boat. 

On  that  side,  I  was  in  my  own  province,  and 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  hung  back  a  little,  as  the  People 
came  to  greet  us.  On  the  top  of  the  knoll,  where 
the  wind  blew,  Hamadryads  danced  in  a  ring, 
and  a  Satyr  played  his  pipe  for  them.  At  the 

67 


foot  of  the  knoll,  among  the  laurel,  and  in  the 
reeds  at  the  pond's  edge,  danced  and  played  the 
myriad  Wood  People.  And  when  we  came,  they 
paused  and  smiled.  And  they  asked  me: 

"Where  is  she?"  And  again,  "Where  is  she?" 
And  more  eagerly,  "  Will  she  come?  "  And  again, 
sadly,  "  Where  is  she?  "  I  shook  my  head.  What 
could  I  say? 

"  Do  they  want  to  know  about  Aunt  Florizel?" 
whispered  Billy  Wright  Jr.,  and  the  People  looked 
puzzled.  They  did  not  know  her  by  that  name. 
But  I  told  him  "  Yes."  And  he  turned  to  them. 

"  Diana  won't  come  to  you,"  he  said,  "  she  has 
gone  to  stop  in  a  professor  person's  house  and 
learn  to  mix  things  in  a  glass."  They  crowded 
around  us  and  I  said, 

"  Yes,  it  is  true.  She  has  forgotten."  They 
were  troubled,  and  they  asked  how  she  had 
learned  to  forget.  And  I  told  them,  from  books. 
Then  they  murmured  and  sang  among  themselves 
a  little,  and  presently,  drifted  away,  turning  to 
smile,  and  wave  their  hands,  and  then  melting 
into  the  green. 


We  decided  to  walk  back,  around  the  pond. 
Suddenly,  as  we  went,  the  air  became  like  rare 
spiced  wine  for  fragrance,  and  down  from  a  tree- 
top  poured  a  song  that  filled  the  Garden  with 
a  golden  melody.  And  I  realized  that  we  had 
come  to  where  Voix-belle  sang  at  the  doors  of 
his  Carnation  lady-love.  We  paused  a  moment, 
and  the  liquid  notes  fell,  honeyed  drop  by  drop 

68 


deep  into  our  hearts  and  diffused  their  sweetness 
through  all  our  beings.     Then  we  went  on. 

"  Pink  can't  act  any  more,"  said  Billy  Wright 
Jr. 

58?      58?      58? 

There  was  a  matinee  that  afternoon,  and  I  has 
tened  away  from  the  White  Magic  Grandmother's 
cool  luncheon  table,  that  I  might  not  miss  the 
first  act.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  had  preceded  me, 
and  I  found  him  standing  in  the  entrance  with 
the  O.  F.  M. 

"Ah,  Captain!"  said  I,  saluting.  The  O.  F.  M. 
returned  the  salute,  pleased,  and  graciously. 

"  Coin'  to  the  show?"  he  asked,  and  I  said  yes, 
of  course. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  asked  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  and  he  watched  me  as  I  viewed  all  the  im 
provements  in  the  Royal  Garden  Theatre.  No 
one  would  have  guessed  what  a  wreck  it  had 
been  a  few  weeks  before.  It  was  much  gayer, 
more  modern  and  altogether  more  prosperous  and 
imposing.  I  told  Billy  Wright  Jr.  so. 

"  It's  my  design,"  he  said.  "  But  Puck  helped 
a  lot,  too."  When  I  expressed  my  surprise  at 
that,  he  said, 

"  Puck's  got  some  pretty  good  ideas.  He's 
seen  a  lot,  you  know,  Apollo.  He's  got  a  pretty 
level  head." 

"  Doesn't  he  try  to  be  funny  any  more?  " 

"  No.  That's  funny,  too.  But  he's  call-boy 
now,  and  usher  sometimes,  and  he's  no  end  seri 
ous."  A  crowd  of  Grey  Moths  straggled  up  to 
the  stage  entrance.  They  were  dandy,  military- 

69 

H 


looking  chaps,  in  light  grey  uniforms  with  capes, 
and  little  red-banded  caps  on  the  sides  of  their 
heads.  They  were  all  smoking  cigarettes,  and 
their  glances  and  perfectly  audible  remarks 
brought  bright  blushes  to  the  faces  of  passing 
Flower  Fairies. 

"You  have  a  new  chorus?"  I  asked  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  He  looked  not  altogether  happy. 

"  Those  fellows  aren't  regular.  They  do  a  drill 
in  the  third  act.  The  Due  Desireux  des  ficlairs 
lent  them  to  me.  It's  his  regiment." 

"Who  in  the  world!"  I  was  fairly  startled 
out  of  my  composure,  because  I  saw,  coming  up 
the  way,  the  most  remarkable  young  Persons,  I 
am  sure,  that  were  ever  seen  in  the  light  of  day. 
Young  lady  Persons,  they  were,  rather  tall,  and 
of  a  slimness  that  was  insisted  upon  by  the  severe 
elegance  of  their  closely-fitting  black  gowns.  They 
wore  rather  large  black  hats  and  voluminous  grey 
automobile  veils,  under  which  I  could  dimly  dis 
cern  their  pale  pointed  faces,  shadowy  eyes  and 
fluffy  masses  of  most  vivid  red  hair.  They  moved 
languidly,  and  seemed  weary.  Very  remarkable 
appearing  young  Persons,  I  thought  them.  I 
turned  to  find  Billy  Wright  Jr.  smiling  at  me. 

"  Fire  Flies,"  said  he.     "  Keen  dancers." 

"Oh,  that's  why  they  seem  tired!"  I  said. 
"  They  properly  belong  to  the  night.  Can  they 
dance  at  all  in  the  day?" 

"You'll  see!"  he  promised.  "We  darken  down 
for  them."  And  indeed,  as  they  turned  into  the 
stage  entrance  with  the  perky  Grey  Moth?,  the 
languid  creatures  seemed  already  to  have  livened 
up  a  bit. 

70 


"  Have  you  changed  your  whole  cast?  "  I  asked 
him. 

"  Well,  pretty  much.  The  leads  are  the  same — 
Oiseau  d'Or  and  Voix-belle.  Dan  de  Lion  left 
us  last  week.  He'd  been  getting  seedy  for  some 
time.  Gone  into  business  somewhere — real  es 
tate,  I  think.  Married,  you  know.  Nearly  all  the 
flower  Fairies  go  that  way.  Pierrot  has  his  lines." 

"What  about  them — Pierrette  and  Pierrot? 
Have  they  decided  to  stop  in  the  Garden?  I 
thought  they  wanted  to  get  back  to  Fairyland?" 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"  They've  got  some  kind  of  a  scheme  on  here." 
There  was  a  buzz,  the  Red-Beetle  swept  up,  and 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  assisted  Oiseau  d'Or  to  alight. 
She  bowed  to  me  sweetly,  and  stood  talking  to 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  for  an  instant.  Then  she  went 
on  to  her  dressing  room,  followed  by  her  maid 
and  Puck,  who  had  just  come  out  to  bear  the 
trailing  scarfs. 

"  Hello!  "  exclaimed  Billy  Wright  Jr.  A  Dragon- 
Fly  motor  car  was  stopping  out  in  front  of  the 
theatre,  and  in  it  was  a  party  most  unmistakably 
bridal.  Voix-belle  jumped  out,  and  lifted  down 
Pink  in  his  arms.  We  went  forward,  tentatively 
congratulatory,  and  Voix-belle  presented  us  to 
Madame  Voix-belle.  The  rest  of  the  theatre  Peo 
ple  had  got  wind  of  their  arrival,  and  came  pour 
ing  out  to  greet  them.  The  air  was  filled  with 
flowers  and  confetti;  bells  rang  and  the  orchestra 
played  the  Fairies'  Wedding  March.  Passers-by 
gathered  in  a  smiling  crowd,  till,  presently,  Billy 
Wright  Jr.,  remembering  the  time  of  day,  we 
went  behind  to  make-up. 

71 


THE  FIFTH  CHAPTER  PRESENTS  A 
TRAGIC  INCIDENT  AND  DISCOVERS 
A  SORROWFUL  BUT  TENDER  SE 
CRET  AND  ENDS  WITH  A  TRIUMPH 


LLY  WRIGHT  JR.  asked  me  not  to 
say  how  the  theatre  was  darkened 
down  for  the  matinee  performance, 
so  that  the  Fireflies  could  do  their 
dance.  You  see,  that  was  a  bit  of 
very  fine  Magic — and  it  wouldn't  do,  really,  to 
publish  it  where  anybody  but  Fairies  could  read 
it.  Why,  even  some  of  the  Provincial  Fairies, 
who  had  never  been  home,  were  astonished  at  it. 
It  was,  really,  a  clever  bit  of  work. 

It  was  the  first  matinee  performance  I  had 
seen.  The  house  filled  rapidly  with  a  most  charm 
ing  audience.  It  was  as  though  the  concentrated 
beauty  and  grace  of  the  Garden  filled  the  place, 
and  lifted  sweet  expectant  flower-faces  to  our  cur 
tain.  I  remember  very  little  about  the  play,  be 
cause  so  many  things  kept  happening  to  take  my 
attention  from  it.  You  remember  the  Mother 
Goose  poem  about  the  people  who  went  to  sea 
in  an  open  boat,  "  and  the  open  boat  bended,  and 
now  my  story  's  ended?  "  Well,  this  play  began 
where  that  poem  ended.  But  in  the  first  place, 
before  the  first  act,  I  was  peering  out  at  the  house. 
and  I  saw  one  of  the  Fly  ushers  having  a  time 
with  a  crowd  of  those  tailor-made  Nasturtium 

72 


girls,  because  they  insisted  on  keeping  their  um 
brellas  up.  They  simply  ignored  the  Fly,  and 
were  deaf  to  what  the  people  about  them  said.  But 
what  was  my  delight  to  see  Puck,  who  was  head 
usher,  come  down  the  aisle,  carelessly  elegant, 
and  bow  with  gallant  grace  to  the  tailor-made 
Nasturtium  girls!  He  talked  with  them,  perhaps 
a  minute;  and  they  were  all  in  a  flutter  of  ex 
citement  at  being  the  center  of  attention,  and 
doubtless  the  objects  of  the  envy  of  all  the  other 
Flower  Fairies  in  the  theatre.  And  soon  I  saw 
Puck  lean  over  and  appear  to  whisper  some  little 
confidence.  In  another  second  he  was  swinging 
back  up  the  aisle  with  all  the  umbrellas  in  his 
arms,  and  the  tailor-made  Nasturtium  girls  set 
tled  themselves  for  the  afternoon,  quite  compla 
cently. 

There  was  great  confusion  behind  scenes,  oc 
casioned  by  the  Grey  Moths,  who  crowded  nbout 
the  Fireflies,  appearing  to  admire  them  prodig 
iously.  There  were  one  or  two  little  differences 
of  opinion  to  be  settled  between  certain  ones  of 
them  who  aspired  to  the  favors  of  the  same  Fire 
fly.  And  Billy  Wright  Jr.  was  positively  up  in 
the  air.  The  wedding  party  came  in  for  its  share 
of  attention,  of  course.  And  I  did  not  see  how  a 
play  was  to  be  evolved  out  of  the  confusion. 
The  curtain  did  go  up,  however,  in  fairly  good 
time,  and  Voix-belle  sang  a  serenade  directly  into 
the  wings,  to  Pink,  who  was  behind  scenes.  It 
troubled  him  not  at  all,  that  he  was  supposed  to 
be  singing  to  Oiseau  d'Or  in  a  casement  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stage.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
people  were  regarding  Voix-belle  with  something 

73 


more  than  their  usual  affectionate  interest  in  the 
leading  man.  I  saw  the  Due  Desireux  des  ficlairs, 
who  had  come,  no  doubt,  to  see  his  men  drill, 
lean  over  the  chair  of  the  Star  Fairy  in  the  pro 
scenium  box.  She  had  never  before  graced  the 
theatre  with  her  presence,  I  am  sure.  In  answer 
to  whatever  the  Due  Desireux  des  ficlairs  had 
said,  the  Star  Fairy  looked  long  and  earnestly  at 
Voix-belle,  who  was  singing  so  fervently  to  his 
bride  and  almost  forgetful  of  the  play.  Then  they 
began  what  appeared  to  be  a  serious  conversation 
and  paid  no  further  heed  to  the  performance. 

In  the  middle  of  the  first  act,  when  the  Grey 
Moths  were  performing  their  most  bewildering 
evolutions,  a  sensation  was  caused  by  the  en 
trance  of  a  party  noticeable  enough  in  the  pro 
vincial  Garden.  There  were  four  of  them,  gen 
tlemen.  And  it  was  plain,  even  to  me,  that  they 
were  from  the  Court  of  His  Majesty.  There  was 
about  them  a  certain  air,  a  something,  that  de 
clared  them  unmistakably  of  the  beau  monde.  I 
happened  to  be  looking  at  the  Star  Fairy  when 
these  late-comers  made  their  entrance.  And  I 
saw  her  turn  to  the  Due  Desireux  des  ficlairs 
with  what  seemed  to  be  an  exclamation  of  the 
greatest  surprise.  That  gentleman,  I  perceived, 
rose,  and  stood  at  attention  as  the  four  strangers 
passed  down  the  aisle.  I  am  sure  he  met  the 
glance  of  one  of  them,  and  he  seemed  about  to 
salute.  But  then,  I  thought  a  little  look  of  intel 
ligence  passed  between  them,  and  the  Due  sub 
sided  into  his  chair,  with  a  whispered  comment 
to  the  Star  Fairy.  Others  beside  myself  had 
noticed  this  little  by-play  and  the  faint  stir  of  in 


74 


terest  lasted  long  after  the  strange  gentlemen  had 
taken  their  places  in  the  first  row  of  the  orchestra, 
bowed  in  and  waved  in  by  a  more  than  usually 
elegant  Puck. 

I  left  my  point  of  observation  in  the  wings,  and 
turned  my  attention  to  affairs  behind  scenes.  The 
wedding  reception  and  the  Firefly-Moth  flirtations 
were  still  going  on.  And  Billy  Wright  Jr.,  in  his 
double  role  of  first  comedy  and  stage-manager, 
had  his  hands  full.  He  passed  me  once,  making 
his  exit  after  one  of  his  best  scenes.  He  called 
over  his  shoulder, 

"Going  all  right?"  I  followed  him  up. 

"Great!" 

"Peach  of  a  house!"  he  declared,  and  plunged 
into  the  luminous  midst  of  the  Fireflies,  I  sup 
pose,  to  give  some  last  instructions.  I  knew  that 
he  felt  the  success  of  the  whole  show  hung  upon 
their  dance. 

The  curtain  came  down.  I  was  getting  out  of 
the  way  of  things,  and  I  came  upon  Pierrot  and 
Pierrette,  just  as  I  had  first  seen  them,  looking 
out  and  discussing  the  people  in  front.  But  I 
was  struck  by  the  tenseness  of  their  interest. 
They  were  almost  breathless,  and  I  knew,  well 
enough,  that  they  were  watching  the  four  distin 
guished  gentlemen.  But  when  they  turned  and 
saw  me,  all  their  old  gay  vivacity  returned  and  I 
found  myself  the  object  of  their  affectionate  so 
licitude. 

"Ah,  mon  vieux!"  cried  Pierrot,  "where  have 
you  been?  "  and, 

"Yes!"  said  Pierrette,  "account  for  your 
self!" 

75 


"  I  went  away,"  I  told  them,  "  so  that  I  might 
have  the  happiness  of  coming  back." 

"  It  is  sweet  to  be  missed!  "  Pierrette  sighed 
and  then  looked  up  archly. 

"  Billy  Wright — "  I  began,  and  they  both 
laughed. 

"  She  carry  your  book  all  day,  my  frien".  "  said 
Pierrot. 

"An'  one  other!"   said   Pierrette. 

"  Which?  "  I  asked,  but  there  was  a  call  for  the 
second  act  and  they  ran  away. 

It  was  after  the  third  act  that  the  dreadful  thing 
happened.  Billy  Wright  Jr.  had  come  to  talk  to 
me  in  the  breathing  space.  He  was  looking  very 
Fairy-like  in  the  pink  tights  and  gauze  wings.  He 
leaned  against  a  rock. 

"Seen  the  house?"  he  asked  me.  There  was  a 
box  party  I  had  particularly  noticed,  and  I  asked 
him  about  them. 

"  Lady  Washingtons.  One  of  the  finest  families 
in  the  Garden.  " 

"And  the  fragile  beauties  in  green  and  white — 
those  in  the  poke  bonnets  and  veils?" 

"  Those  are  the  sweet  Alyssum  sisters,  some  of 
the  old  stock.  They  very  seldom  come  to  a  show." 
I  was  not  surprised.  They  looked  like  so  many 
Phebe  Throssels.  Suddenly  I  became  aware  that 
something  very  unusual  had  occurred.  A  start 
ling  silence  fell  upon  the  fluttering  crowd  behind 
scenes.  The  four  strange  gentlemen  had  appeared 
at  the  stage  door  and  were  asking  for  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  He  went  to  them,  and,  after  an  exchange  of 
formal  greetings,  I  saw  one  of  them  give  a  rolled 
parchment  to  Billy  Wright  Jr.,  seeming  to  add  a 

76 


word  of  explanation.  Then  the  gentlemen  waited 
until  Billy  Wright  Jr.  should  finish  reading.  I 
saw  that  one  of  them  was  in  command  of  their 
party,  that  two,  younger  than  he,  were,  clearly, 
aides,  and  that  the  other  was  apparently  not  con 
cerned  in  the  official  part  of  their  mission. 

Billy  Wright  Jr.  read  the  message,  bowed  again 
to  the  gentlemen,  and  stepped  toward  Pink's  dress 
ing  room.  The  babble  of  happy  voices  stopped 
and  in  a  moment  Billy  Wright  Jr.  came  back  with 
Voix-belle.  Pink  and  some  of  the  company  ap 
peared  at  the  door,  pale  and  apprehensive.  It 
was  clear  that  Voix-belle  knew  these  Persons. 
He  greeted  them  all,  and  the  one  who  seemed  not 
to  be  officially  connected  with  the  others,  sprang 
forward  and  grasped  his  hand  warmly.  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  came  hurriedly  to  me. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  over  and  meet  these  gen 
tlemen.  Keep  them  interested  until  we  get  things 
straightened  out  here." 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  I  asked. 

"  Exactly  what  we  all  expected.  The  news  of 
his  marriage  has  reached  home,  and  a  delegation 
is  sent  recalling  him  from  exile.  That's  all." 

"What  about   Pink?" 

"  Nothing   has   been   said  about   Pink." 

"Can't  she  go?"  I  was  really  concerned.  But 
we  reached  the  others  before  he  could  answer 
me.  I  was  presented  to  the  gentleman  in  com 
mand  of  the  party — no  other  than  the  famous 
Cabinet  Minister,  Coup  d'fitat,  Baron  of  Tour  de 
Force;  and  to  the  aides,  who  proved  to  be  Point 
d'fipee,  the  young  soldier  of  fortune,  and  the  vola 
tile  Bon  Mot,  Duke  of  Bel  Esprit;  then  to  their 

77 


companion,  Jaune  Gorge,  a  cousin  of  Voix-belle's. 
I  forgot  my  real  distress  concerning  Pink  and  her 
husband,  in  my  pleasure  at  meeting  these  gentle 
men,  of  whom  I  had  heard  so  much.  They  were, 
truly,  fine  fellows,  and  I  suppose,  acting  under 
orders,  they  were  in  no  way  to  be  blamed  for  the 
sorrow  they  brought  to  the  little  Carnation  Fairy 
and  her  songster.  But  it  seemed  very  clear  that 
their  duty  was  the  cruel  one  of  separating  the 
newly  married  lovers;  for  I  saw  Voix-belle  take 
a  sorrowful  farewell  of  little  Pink,  and  then  come 
toward  us,  as  though  to  put  himself  in  the  hands 
of  the  King's  representatives.  There  was  a  still 
ness  about  him  that  could  not  be  mistaken  for 
indifference.  He  was  resigned,  but  none  the  less 
conscious  of  his  suffering.  The  Duke  of  Bel  Es 
prit  gave  him  a  commiserating  look.  The  others 
bowed  silently,  and  his  cousin,  Jaune  Gorge,  threw 
his  arm  about  Voix-belle's  shoulder  with  cousinly 
solicitude.  So  they  went  away.  Pink  saw  them 
go  without  a  cry;  but  she  wilted  down  among 
her  blooming  sisters,  and  they  carried  her  away 
somewhere  to  be  comforted. 

"He  shouldn't  have  done  it!"  I  said  hotly  to 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  "  He  should  have  stayed  by 
her,  now  that  he's  married."  Billy  Wright  Jr.  was 
testy. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about, 
I  guess,  Apollo.  He  couldn't  stay.  How  could 
he?  He  was  sent  for." 

"The  King  sent  for  him,  you  mean;  well,  what 
if  he  did?"  I  was  really  indignant  at  the  way 
in  which  pretty  little  Pink  had  been  treated. 
"What  if  the  King  did  send  for  Voix-belle?  He 

78 


should  stop  with  Pink,  now  that  he  has  married 
her — or  he  should  have  taken  her  with  him." 

"  Well,"  Billy  Wright  Jr.  had  the  air  of  explain 
ing  perfectly  obvious  things.  "  He  had  no  right 
to  marry,  anyway,  because  he  was  exiled.  And 
his  family  never  marry  in  the  Provinces;  and 
when  you  are  sent  for  by  His  Majesty,  you  go. 
And  they  wouldn't  recognize  his  marriage,  at 
Court,  where  he  belongs.  And  Voix-belle  couldn't 
help  himself  about  going  away,  only  he  was  fool 
ish  to  marry  Pink.  We  all  told  him  so.  I  guess 
you  don't  exactly  understand  about  these  things, 
Apollo." 

"No,  I  don't!" 

"But  what  am  I  going  to  do?"  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  turned  on  me  abruptly.  "  Pierrette  can  take 
Pink's  place,  but  who  will  sing  the  lead?  Thai 
last  act  must  go  on.  I've  staked  my  professional 
reputation  on  it."  I  couldn't  help  him.  He  couldn't 
do  it  himself,  because  he  had  his  hands  full  with 
the  first  comedy.  The  O.  F.  M.  couldn't  sing, 
and  anyway,  he  was  off  somewhere  with  his  boys 
in  green;  and  the  audience  was  becoming  restless. 
All  the  company  had  their  own  lines.  I  couldn't 
think  of  anybody  who  could  do  it.  • 

"  I'll  take  a  try  at  it,  if  there  isn't  anyone  else," 
said  a  modest  voice  behind  us,  and  we  swung 
around  to  face  Puck.  He  shrunk  a  little  from  the 
surprise  in  our  eyes.  But  Billy  Wright  Jr.  hesi 
tated  only  a  second. 

"  You  do  it,  Puck!  "  he  cried,  seizing  his  hand. 
"  You  do  it — go  get  your  make-up  on.  Know  the 
lines?  Here  they  are,  look  them  over.  How 
quick  can  you  do  it?  All  right,  I'll  ring  up  the 


? .<* 


curtain!"  Puck  was  off  getting  into  Voix-belle's 
costume,  and  the  call-boy  scurried  about  yelling 
"Fourth  act!  "  Billy  Wright  Jr.  went  out  in  front 
and  made  a  little  speech  announcing  the  changes 
in  the  cast.  Puck  came  out  transformed;  the 
curtain  went  up  and  Pierrette  danced  on  in  Pink's 
part,  getting  a  huge  hand  almost  immediately.  I 
stood  there  and  considered  how  marvelously  easy 
it  is  to  throw  off  the  dampening  effect  of  other 
people's  troubles. 

"They  forget  soon!"  said  a  sweet  voice  in  an 
swer  to  my  thought;  and  I  found  Oiseau  d'Or 
beside  me. 

"  So  long  as  the  fourth  act  amuses  them,  they 
have  little  cause  to  remember  the  first,"  I  said, 
thinking  that  these  denizens  of  the  Garden  were 
not  greatly  different  from  others  I  had  known. 

"  If  one  could  forget  as  quickly  as  one  is  for 
gotten !"  Her  laugh  and  her  eyes  were  so  sad 
that  I  felt  an  uncomfortable  tightening  about  my 
throat.  And  I  watched  her  moodily,  as  she  made 
her  entrance,  so  sweetly  gay  to  delight  her  audi 
ence.  What  was  it  that  made  this  gentle  lady  so 
sad  at  heart? 

It  was  indeed  a  day  of  surprises.  Puck,  in  the 
beautiful  scene  with  Oiseau  d'Or  that  closed  the 
first  act,  was  the  heart  and  soul  of  song.  Surely, 
I  told  myself,  listening,  there  could  be  but  on-e 
cause  for  such  singing.  His  voice,  his  lilting 
voice,  with  something  old  in  it,  and  something 
very  young,  was  full  of  the  tremulous  gladness 
of  life.  I  listened  for  an  echo  in  the  voice  of 
Oiseau  d'Or.  But,  in  that  golden-throated  song, 
I  heard  only  the  little  laugh,  sad,  sad. 

80 


OISEAU     D'OR 

'  I  am  a  fugitive." 


After  the  show,  Puck  slipped  away  from  us 
bashfully  before  we  had  half  told  him  what  we 
thought  of  his  performance. 

"  Isn't  it  funny,"  Billy  Wright  Jr.  said  to  me, 
"  Puck  isn't  anything  like  as  proud  of  himself  as 
he  used  to  be  when  he'd  made  a  perfect  ninny  of 
himself,  trying  to  be  funny!  Isn't  it  queer?  I 
never  knew  a  straight  that  didn't  think  he  could 
show  us  all  how  to  play  comedy.  And  I  never 
knew  a  comedy  who  wouldn't  give  his  ears  to 
play  straight.  Funny?"  "  Yes,"  I  said  it  was. 

I  waited  outside  until  Billy  Wright  Jr.  should 
be  ready  to  join  me.  The  O.  F.  M.  was  drilling 
his  boys  in  green  in  the  near  distance.  They  were 
singing  "  The  Wearing  of  the  Green."  They  pro 
duced  a  fine  volume  of  sound. 

"  The  O.  F.  M.  has  a  new  line,"  said  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  when  he  came  out.  "  He  and  the  Pix 
ies  get  pretty  thirsty,  marching  around  on  land 
all  day.  They  said  they  felt  pretty  sorry  for  peo 
ple  who  were  always  dry,  so  they've  started  up 
a  club  at  the  Barracks — that's  the  pond,  you  know. 
And  all  the  fellows  go  there  after  the  show  every 
night." 

"  Good  idea!  " 

"  Yep,"  said  Billy  Wright  Jr.  Just  then  the  com 
pany  marched  up.  They  presented  arms,  and — 

"  Is  it  thirrsty  ye  arre?  "  said  the   O.   F.    M. 

"  I  am,"  said  I. 

"Come  along  wid  yez!"  called  a  grizzled  old 
sergeant.  And  along  we  went;  fell  in  at  the  head 
of  that  company.  And  I  was  glad  to  forget  that 
we  had  been  enemies,  even  for  one  night. 

There  is  nothing  very  elegant  about  the  Bar- 

81 


$$<& 


racks  Club,  but  we  were  thoroughly  satisfied  there. 
When  Billy  Wright  Jr.  and  I  turned  our  steps 
houseward,  the  O.  F.  M.  came  with  us.  It  was 
late  afternoon,  and  all  the  choirs  were  tuning 
up  for  evensong.  A  golden  haze  filled  the  air 
and  a  thousand  perfumes  wreathed  about  us.  We 
paused,  in  sheer  delight  of  the  hour;  and  Puck 
joined  us,  by  the  jasmine  thicket. 

The  light  softened.  Someone  passed  through 
the  Garden  saying, 

"  Sh h!  "  I  heard  the  silver  sound 

of  trumpets  far  and  faintly  sweet;  a  dulcet  sound 
that  grew  and  swelled  and  rang  till  all  the  air 
was  music.  Down  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun 
came  such  a  calvacade  as,  I  am  sure,  had  not  made 
the  old  Garden  glad  since  the  days  when  Oberon 
himself,  King  of  Fairies,  lived  on  this  earth. 
Purple  and  gold  and  rainbow  hues;  prancing 
steeds  and  tossing  plumes,  fluttering  scarfs  of 
raveled  tinsel,  flash  of  jewels,  sheen  and  billow- 
ings  of  fabrics  too  fair  for  my  words;  backward 
glance  of  star-bright  eyes,  waving  hands,  lilt  and 
swish  and  jingle,  laugh  and  song  and  clink  of 
golden  trappings;  down  they  came,  down  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  sun.  They  paused  before 
they  reached  us,  beneath  the  jasmine  thicket. 
The  heralds,  pricking  forward  on  gold-shod  steeds, 
raised  their  silver  trumpets  and  blew  an  eerie 
sweet  blast.  Then  he  rode  forward  who  was  first 
knight  of  them  all;  came,  azure-clad,  on  his  danc 
ing  white  horse,  and  sat,  looking  up,  to  where  a 
casement  swung  slowly  open  in  the  midst  of  jas 
mine  stars. 

Oiseau  d'Or,  radiant  Oiseau  d'Or! 

82 


The  Azure  Knight,  springing  from  his  saddle, 
sank  on  one  knee  and  proffered  some  mystic  thing 
to  her  at  the  jasmine  casement. 

"A  pardon!  A  pardon!"  cried  all  that  joyous 
company.  Bells  rang,  and  the  trumpets.  You 
would  have  said  that  all  the  world  was  glad. 
Oiseau  d'Or  kissed  her  hands  to  them,  and  left 
the  casement. 

"  A  pardon!  "  I  said  to  Puck,  "  What  for?  " 

"Never   mind   now,   that's   all    forgotten!" 

"  But  Puck — I  thought — "  But  he  was  not  listen 
ing.  He  looked  at  Oiseau  d'Or  who  just  then 
came  from  the  jasmine  thicket,  and  put  her  hand 
in  that  of  the  Azure  Knight.  That  wonderful 
Person  led  her  to  another  steed  of  white,  whose 
yellow  trappings  swept  the  ground.  When  she 
had  mounted,  he  also  took  horse,  and  before  those 
two  all  that  company  passed  and  did  them  hom 
age.  Before  they  rode  away  up  the  slanting  sun 
bearos,  Oiseau  d'Or  turned  and  kissed  her  rosy 
finger-tips  to  us.  She  was  no  longer  sad.  Radiant 
Oiseau  d'Or! 

When  they  had  quite  gone,  and  the  sound  of 
the  trumpet  had  melted  away  faint  and  fainter  in 
the  evening  air,  all  the  Garden  took  a  deep 
breath,  and  we  went  on  home.  We  paused  at 
Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  door. 

"Well,  good-bye,  fellows!"  said  Puck. 

"You'll  be  on  hand  to-night,  will  you?"  asked 
Billy  Wright  Jr. 

"  Oh  yes,  I'll  be  on  hand  all  right."  He  was 
cheerful,  but  not  enthusiastic. 

"  Is  it  thirrsty  ye  arre?  "  suggested  the  O.  F.  M., 
but  Puck  declined.  He  turned  away. 

83  W 


"Good  night,  Puck!"  I  called. 

"  S'long,  Apollo!  See  you  again."  He  swung 
off  into  the  twilight.  I  like  him — immensely. 

"  What  did  it  all  mean?  "  I  asked  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  as  soon  as  I  got  the  chance. 

"About  Oiseau  d'Or?  Well  you  see,  she  was 
exiled,  because  she  refused  to  do  something  they 
thought  she  ought  to  do.  And  now  she's  been 
pardoned,  and  she's  gone  back." 

"What  did  she  refuse  to  do?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Oiseau  d'Or  was  one  of 
the  greatest  ladies  at  Court,  and  a  favorite.  There 
wasn't  anything  she  couldn't  have,  or  do,  if  she 
wanted  to.  And  she  was  pretty  much  in  love 
with  this  Reveur  des  Reves,  I  guess." 

"  Who  was  he?  " 

"  The  one  in  blue,  who  rode  off  with  her.  And. 
well,  as  near  as  I  know,  this  Reveur  des  Reves 
went  off  somewhere  after  one  of  his  ideas,  and 
then  someone  started  a  scheme  for  marrying  off 
Oiseau  d'Or  to  someone  else.  Of  course  His 
Majesty  can't  be  expected  to  keep  track  of  every 
body's  love  affairs.  And  so  he  ordered  the  mar 
riage." 

"To  the  other  fellow?  Well,  why  didn't  she 
tell  His  Majesty  about  this  Reveur  des  Reves? 
If  she  was  such  a  great  favorite,  I  should  think 
she  could  have  had  her  own  way." 

"  Well,  she  couldn't  tell,  because  she  didn't 
know  for  sure  that  he  liked  her." 

"Oh,  I  see!  He  went  away  without  a  definite 
understanding  that  he  would  come  back.  And 
so  Oiseau  d'Or  refused  this  other  marriage,  and 
could  give  no  reason?" 

84 


"That's  it." 

"And  so  they  exiled  her,  and  she  thought  he 
had  forgotten.  But  he  hadn't.  Well,  I'm  sorry 
for  Puck!" 

We  went  to  dinner  with  the  White  Magic 
Grandmother.  "  I  am  worried  about  Florizel," 
said  the  Grandmother.  "  She  writes  me  that  she 
is  not  happy.  She  speaks  of  being  homesick  for 
the  Garden!  I  never  knew  Florizel  to  feel  so.  I 
am  afraid  she  is  ill." 

"  No  ma'am,  Grandma!  She's  better."  Said 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  positively.  The  Grandmother 
smiled.  Did  she  understand?  I  hoped  that  I  did. 


Billy  Wright  Jr.  walked  to  the  gate  with  me. 

"  I'll  come  out  next  week  and  help  you  to  put 
on  that  play  of  mine,  if  you  like,"  I  said.  Five 
Hamadryads  clasped  hands  and  danced  around 
us,  then  fled  away,  laughing,  in  the  dark. 

"All  right,  Apollo!  Aunt  Florizel  is  coming 
back  next  week."  Pierrot  and  Pierrette  perched 
on  either  side  of  the  gate  and  nodded  gaily  to 
me  as  I  went  by. 


85 


THE  SIXTH  CHAPTER  SHOWS  REA 
SON  FOR  SORROW,  SEEKS  A  REM 
EDY,  HEARS  COUNCIL;  BUT  ENDS 
IN  SAD  CONFUSION  AND  SURPRISE 


WENT  up  to  the  City,  and  for  two 
or  three  days   I   was  very  busy  at 
tending  to  some  unimportant  things. 
Then,  one  evening  I  was  sitting  be 
fore  my  fire.     I  was  wrapped  in  my 
dressing  gown,  and  slippered.     And  I  was  smok 
ing  my  rankest  pipe.     I  was,  really,  very  happy, 
when  someone  brought  a  letter  to  my  door.     It 
was  from  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

Dear  Apollo: 

The  professor  person  wrote  a  letter  to  my 
Grandmother  and  he  said  that  my  Aunt  Flori- 
zel  is  the  cleverest  person  there  is  because 
she  discovered  something  about  flowers  that 
nobody  knew  before.  Maybe  she  will  go  to 
Europe  and  learn  things.  Puck  says  he  is 
going  where  she  is  and  sing  so  she  will  want 
to  come  back  to  the  Garden.  If  she  stops 
away  very  much  longer  she  may  forget  ev 
erything.  The  man  that  gave  her  the  French 
book  is  going  away  to  do  something  great. 
My  Grandmother  said  he  is  the  youngest  man 
who  ever  did  it  and  he  is  very  smart.  I  am 
going  away  somewhere  and  do  something 

86 


great  when  I  grow  up.  Did  you  ever  want 
to  do  anything  like  that?  But  I  think  it  is 
nice  to  write  plays  and  act  like  my  father, 
only  people  don't  like  you  for  it  and  give 
you  medals.  I  like  your  play  all  right,  though, 
Apollo,  and  I  wish  you  would  come  down  so 
we  can  put  it  on. 

BILLY  WRIGHT  JR. 

Suddenly,  my  little  gods  remembered  me.  They 
appeared  along  the  mantel-shelf,  a  row  of  them; 
little  jujube-paste  men,  such  as  you  buy  at 
the  corner  grocery  for  a  penny  apiece.  One  of 
them  was  yellow.  He  flattened  himself  down 
until  his  chin  rested  on  his  knees,  and  the  top 
of  his  head  on  his  chin,  almost.  Then  he  scowled 
and  scowled. 

"  Everybody  has  been  treating  you  very  bad 
ly,"  he  said.  "  You  are  miserably  unhappy."  I 
forgot  to  smoke  while  I  assured  myself  of  the 
truth  of  what  he  said.  "  She  thinks  you  can't 
write  plays  and  she  thinks  you  can't  write  books 
or  French  verses.  She  doesn't  believe  in  you; 
she  is  going  away  to  Europe;  she  is  breaking  your 
heart!"  The  yellow  one  gave  a  little  jerk  to 
the  string  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  I  felt  my  heart 
tighten  up.  Yes,  I  was  unhappy,  miserably.  A 
red  god  grinned  horribly  and  stretched  out  his 
fingers  to  enormous  lengths.  "  She  thinks  you're 
a  fool,  a  fool,  a  fool!  That  young  man  is  an  engi 
neer!  And  he  has  gone  to  do  something  great. 
Did  you  ever  want  to  do  something  great?"  He 
tugged  a  string  and  I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  kick 
something.  A  white  god  turned  himself  inside 

87 


out,  and — "  What  chance  have  you,  against  that 
chemist  who  changes  things  into  other  things 
inside  glass  jars?  He  can  do  anything — even 
make  Florizel  love  him!"  He  pulled  a  string  and 
my  hands  clenched.  A  green  one  stood  up  and 
stretched  himself  until  he  was  long  and  thin  like 
a  thread.  Then  he  looped  over  and  asked  me. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  away?  Get  out!  Aren't  they 
going  to  put  a  new  god  in  the  Green  House? 
Aren't  they  going  to  clean  the  Play  Room?  Even 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  is  getting  practical.  You  are 
out  of  date.  Go  away  where  no  one  can  find  you. 
Go  on!"  And  I  felt  a  string  pulling  me  away 
to  some  dark  and  dreary  place  far  beyond  the 
sight  and  sound  of  the  Garden.  That  is  how  it 
happened  that  I  left  the  unimportant  affairs  and 
started  off  with  a  gun  and  a  khaki  suit,  and  left 
no  forwarding  address.  I  do  not  kill  things.  The 
gun  was  a  part  of  the  suit.  I  do  not  like  camp- 
fires,  so  I  lived  in  a  small  cottage  that  I  knew 
about,  away  in  the  mountains,  and  my  food  was 
brought  me  from  the  hotel  by  a  tiny  Chinese  boy. 
I  had  been  in  exile  about  three  hundred  years. 
At  least,  other  people  may  have  thought  that 
the  sun  rose  and  set  only  three  times.  But  I 
know  how  long  I  endured.  Not  even  my  little 
gods  were  with  me.  You  would  have  supposed, 
that,  having  persuaded  me  from  Paradise,  they 
would  have  consoled  me  in  the  outer  darkness. 
But  they  flew  off,  and  I  was  alone.  Of  course, 
there  were  People  in  the  woods.  But  they  were 
busy  with  their  own  affairs,  it  seemed  to  me.  At 
least,  none  of  them  took  the  slightest  heed  of  me 
as  I  sat  there  day  after  day  and  watched  them. 

88 


On  the  fourth  day,  when  he  brought  my  lunch, 
Wong,  who  was  seven,  and  whom  I  had  all  along 
suspected  of  being  a  Fairy,  seemed  to  have  some 
thing  on  his  mind  beside  the  artistic  arrangement 
of  my  fruit  and  milk  and  muffins.  He  stopped 
frequently  to  gaze  back  into  the  pine  branches 
and  his  pig-tail  quivered  with  inquisitiveness. 

"What  is  it,  Wong?  " 

"  One  velly  nine  bird!  "  He  told  me.  And  be 
cause  I  knew  that  he  knew  what  he  was  talking 
about,  I  went  and  gazed  into  the  pine  branches. 
And  who  do  you  think  was  there?  "Velly  fline 
bird,"  indeed — not  that  Wong  was  far  off,  though, 
he  did  look  like  a  chipper  flamingo — it  was  Puck. 
He  had  perched  rather  high,  and  now  he  came 
hopping  down,  preserving  his  masquerade  for 
Wong's  delight.  He  landed  in  front  of  the  baby, 
turned  some  dizzy  cart-wheels  and,  coming  right 
side  up,  doffed  his  cap  with  all  the  gay  aplomb 
of  the  Court  Entertainer.  But  when  he  turned 
to  me  he  sobered.  He  took  the  chair  I  offered 
and  we  faced  each  other  over  my  lunch  table. 
Then  at  last  he  spoke. 

"  You  are  going  back  at  once." 

"No,  never!"  I  rebelled  flatly. 

"Why  not?"  Puck  folded  his  arms  and  settled 
himself. 

"Now,  what  is  the  use  of  talking,  Puck?  You 
know  that  I  am  out  of  it.  That  professor  is — 
well,  he  is  successful.  And  so  is  that  engineer 
fellow.  I  am  not.  I  am  out  of  it.  I  have  been 
too  much  of  a  dreamer,  and  I've  got  to  get  prac 
tical.  Mind  you,  I  don't  think  I  can,  but  I  am 
going  to  try.  And  the  Garden  is  no  place  for 


89 


me — for  two  reasons.  But  I'll  get  practical,  any 
way." 

"Just  what  will  you  gain  by  that?" 

"  Nothing.  Everything  is  lost,  now.  But  I 
may  learn  to  forget."  Puck  reached  for  the 
cream — all  Fairies  are  inordinately  fond  of  it. 

"  You  are  going  back." 

"  Now,  I'm  not,  Puck,  I  want  you  to  understand. 
I  am  not  going.  I  doubt  whether  I  would  go, 
even  if  Anybody  should  ask  me,  which  she  will 
not.  Besides,  she  isn't  there." 

"  Yes,  she  is  there.  I  went  to  the  professor's 
house  and  I  sang  to  her.  So  did  Pierrot.  She 
came  back  at  once.  Get  your  hat."  My  heart 
thumped.  But  I  told  myself  what  a  silly  thing  it 
was. 

"  I  will  not  go.  She  does  not  care  to  see  me. 
I  annoy  her  with  my  nonsensical  memories." 

"At  least,  it  would  be  something  to  be  near  her. 
And  you  might  be  of  use,  some  time."  I  thought 
of  Puck's  unquestioning  devotion  to  Oiseau  d'Or. 
and  I  felt  a  moment  of  uncertainty.  But, 

"  Puck,  I  want  to  spare  her  the  sight  of  my  in 
eptitude.  Because  I  think  she  liked  me  once — 
as  a  friend."  Puck  finished  the  cream. 

"So  you  think  she  liked  you,  once  —  as  a 
friend?"  He  raised  doubting  eye-brows. 

"  Why,  weren't  we  the  best  of  friends  in  the 
world?  Didn't  we  play  at  being  Fairies  and  gods? 
Didn't  we  learn  together  all  the  deep  sweet  wis 
dom  of  the  Garden?  Isn't  she  the  most  wonderful 
person  and  haven't  I  worshipped  her  ever  since 
the  beginning?  And  hasn't  she  known  that,  and 
everything  else  that  I  ever  thought  or  felt?  Why, 


90 


words  were  never  necessary,  we  knew!  Why, 
there  never  were  such  friends!" 

"Just  so!"  said  Puck  dryly.  "  We,ll,  at  least, 
you  might  come  back  on  account  of  the  boy." 

"Who— Billy  Wright  Jr.?"  I  laughed.  "Why, 
he  is  rapidly  becoming  practical — he  is  ahead  of 
me!  But  I'll  catch  up  with  him."  Puck  rose. 

"  I  am  tempted  to  repeat  myself."  He  eyed 
me  narrowly.  "  I  will  repeat  myself — 'What  fools 
these  mortals  be!'  Practical!  Bah!  Bah!"  He 
left  me  without  more  words.  As  he  passed  Wong 
he  chirped,  and,  spreading  his  cape,  jumped  light 
ly  to  a  low  branch.  Then  he  doffed  his  cap,  and 
disappeared  among  the  branches. 

"  Velly  fline  bird!"  said  Wong. 

«S8?>       <S3T       <52^ 

Down  in  the  City  I  worked  at  being  practical 
on  the  staff  of  a  newspaper.  It  was  hard  work, 
and  interesting.  But  the  best  of  it  was,  that  it 
took  all  of  my  time  and  almost  all  of  my  thoughts. 
I  could  feel  myself  growing  practical  day  by  day. 
Back  in  my  head,  of  course,  there  was  a  thought 
that  kept  ticking  away  like  a  clock  that  would 
never  run  down.  But  I  ignored  it. 

A  letter  came  from  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

Dear  Apollo: 

The  man  who  makes  colors  come  in  jars 
is  here  now.  His  sister  came  too,  she  is 
pretty,  but  she  doesn't  know  anything  at  all. 
I  asked  her  was  she  a  Fairy  and  she  asked 
Grandmother  didn't  they  teach  me  anything 
useful.  The  idea.  My  Aunt  Florizel  has  a 
new  friend  and  he  is  Ragged  Robin  who 

91 


lives  in  the  arbor  and  makes  poetry.  He 
doesn't  put  it  in  books.  That  isn't  his  real 
name,  he  is  Prince  Charlie.  My  Aunt  Flori 
zel  always  calls  him  that,  she  goes  there  to 
sew.  He  says  she  is  like  a  woman  he  knew 
once.  He  travels  lots.  That  professor  per 
son  says  that  colors  and  smells  of  flowers 
is  chemistry  of  the  soils.  My  Aunt  Florizel 
wrote  a  paper  about  that  for  her  college.  He 
told  me  how  to  spell  it.  I  am  not  going  to 
be  one  when  I  grow  up.  That  man  who  gave 
a  book  to  my  Aunt  Florizel  has  gone  to  meas 
ure  a  mountain  and  dig  a  tunnel.  Puck  says 
we  could  have  a  newspaper  in  the  Garden  if 
you  would  show  us  how.  I've  got  Snow 
White  for  a  leading  woman  and  Tommy 
Tucker  for  a  second  comedy.  The  O.  F.  M. 
will  play  first  comedy  and  the  play  is  all 
ready  whenever  you  come  home. 

BILLY  WRIGHT,  JR. 

I  felt  all  of  me  respond  to  the  appeal  in  that  last 
sentence.  But  I  happened  to  look  up — I  was  rid 
ing  in  a  street  car — and  all  of  my  little  gods  were 
sitting  opposite  me  on  the  bell-strap.  They 
wrinkled  up  their  noses  a*-t  me  and  I  felt  the  tug 
ging  of  strings  upon  my  sagging  resolutions. 
"The  professor  person  is  there!"  they  chanted  in 
chorus.  They  jerked  all  the  strings  at  once.  "The 
Nice  Boy  has  gone  to  measure  a  mountain  and 
dig  a  tunnel!  "  All  my  resolutions  were  taut  again. 
So  I  sent  a  box  of  Christmas-tree  tinsels  to  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  and  wrote  him  that  I  did  not  know 
when  I  would  be  able  to  get  away. 

92 


Every  night  after  that,  my  little  gods  sat  on 
my  mantel-shelf  and  pulled  at  the  strings  that 
tightened  up  my  heart  with  misery  and  loneliness. 
Every  day  they  followed  me  about.  They  jerked 
back  my  thoughts  that  wanted  to  fly  to  the  Gar 
den.  They  tugged  at  my  feet  that  would  stray  to 
ward  the  flowery  paths.  And,  "You  are  very 
much  abused!  "  said  the  little  gods  to  me.  "  Some 
day,  Somebody  may  appreciate  you — when  it  is 
too  late — maybe!  "  Then  they  laughed  and  pulled 
harder  than  ever  on  the  strings,  so  that  the  pen 
fell  from  my  hand  that  was  going  to  write  a  let 
ter. 

One  night  I  looked  in  at  the  Tivoli,  just  for  old 
times'  sake.  Mile.  Mabelle  Villiers  was  quite  as 
charming,  I  had  to  admit,  and  Billy  Wright  Sr. 
was  funny.  Funny.  But  how  could  I  expect  to 
enjoy  them — I  who  was  miserable?  My  little  gods 
followed  me  there,  too.  A  yellow  one  went  to 
sit,  between  acts,  on  the  head  of  a  man  four  rows 
away.  The  yellow  one  rolled  his  eyes.  "  But 
you  are  not  appreciated !"  and  the  tug  he  gave 
sent  my  head  around  with  a  jerk  and  I  saw  just 
what  he  had  intended  I  should,  of  course.  The 
White  Magic  Grandmother  and  Florizel  were  in 
a  stage-box.  And  with  them  was  a  remarkable- 
looking  male  individual  and  a  black  and  white 
and  red  lady.  Both  the  White  Magic  Grand 
mother  and  Florizel  beckoned  to  me,  so  I  went. 

"  We  are  in  for  the  evening,"  said  the  White 
Magic  Grandmother.  "Isn't  the  play  charming1?" 
Then  she  presented  me.  They  were  the  professor 
person  and  his  sister.  I  had  suspected  as  much. 
The  professor  had  a  voice  like  a  bass  viol  and  a 


93 


flabby  hand.  The  black  and  white  and  red  lady 
had  the  stillest  face  in  the  world. 

"  You  are  coming  out  to  dine  next  Wednesday." 
The  White  Magic  Grandmother  was  as  dear  as 
she  had  always  been.  "  We — It  is  a  particular  oc 
casion !"  She  and  Florizel  looked  at  each  other 
and  smiled  and  the  professor  person  looked  at 
them  and  smiled.  Only  the  black  and  white  and 
red  lady  remained  still.  So  I  tried  to  beg  off.  I 
was  working,  I  said,  and  couldn't  get  off. 

"But  you  must  come!"  The  White  Magic 
Grandmother  was  concerned. 

"  Of  course  he  will  come,"  said  Florizel.  And 
I  felt  that  she  was  scorning  me  and  my  work  and 
the  fact  that  I  would  go  in  spite  of  it,  as  she  very 
well  knew.  They  wanted  me  to  join  them  after 
the  play  in  Mrs.  Billy  Wright's  dressing  room. 
But  I  said  no,  that  I  shouldn't  feel  at  home  there 
without  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

"  But  he  is  there.  We  thought  one  evening  of 
the  old  delights  would  do  no  harm.  "  The  White 
Magic  Grandmother  smiled,  insisting. 

"Ah,  but  I  should  miss  the  O.  F.   M." 

"You  boy!"  She  gave  me  up  and  went  away 
on  the  professor  person's  arm.  Florizel  said  noth 
ing,  but  smiled  as  she  passed  me.  I  thought  she 
seemed  very  happy. 

38?      38?      38? 

I  arrived  in  good  time,  that  Wednesday.  The 
shadows  had  just  begun  to  creep  down  the  Gar 
den  and  the  sunlight  still  lay  deep  in  the  bowl  of 
the  fountain.  I  wandered  the  long  way  to  the 
house,  letting  my  glad  feet  stray  along  the  flow- 

94 


ery  paths.  The  Garden  was  beginning  to  stir  a 
little,  and  all  the  sounds  came  soft  and  mellow — 
four  o'clock  sounds,  I  call  them.  Not  many  Fair 
ies  were  about,  but  pipes  were  playing,  and  among  . 
the  trees  I  saw  the  dancing  Wood-People.  I 
turned  aside,  in  answer  to  a  beckoning  hand,  and 
paused  at  the  fountain's  brink. 

"  You  have  been  away — so  long — and  we  have 
been  alone!  Don't  you  care?  Are  you  forgetting? 
Ah,  you  have  been  so  long  away!  "  said  the  Lady 
in  the  fountain.  And  her  voice,  all  made  of  little 
sobs  and  sighs  and  laughter,  ran  on  and  on,  and 
my  thoughts  ran  after,  all  tearful — then  halted  in 
the  pursuit  of  the  elusive  music,  to  wonder  wheth 
er  she  laughed  at  me. 

"  I  have  been  working,"  I  defended,  and, 

"  Alas!  "  She  clasped  her  hands  and  wept.  "  You 
will  forget!"  She  swayed  toward  me,  smiling 
rainbows  through  her  misty  hair.  "  Do  not  for 
get!"  And  I  vowed  that  I  would  not.  But  as  I 
went  away,  I  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  her 
sobbing  laughter — or  was  it  her  mocking  lament? 

In  a  sunny  spot,  I  became  aware  of  the  nearness 
of  some  familiar  presence,  and  found  myself  face 
to  face  with  Pink.  Such  a  sad,  faded,  pensive 
Pink!  She  would  have  passed  me,  walking  with 
down-cast  eyes.  But  I  paused  in  the  way,  and, 

"  If  an  old  friend  might  presume — "  She  lifted 
tired  eyes. 

"Apollo!"  She  gave  me  her  two  pretty  hands 
impulsively,  and  her  wan  face  brightened.  But  then 
her  eyes  brimmed,  and  she  shook  her  head,  smil 
ing  at  me  pitifully.  I  drew  her  hand  through  my 
arm  and  we  walked  on  in  silence.  We  were  both 

95 

\ 


wv 


thinking  of  that  sad  evening  at  the  Royal  Theatre, 
and  of  unhappy  Voix-belle. 

"  Has  there  been  no  word?"    She  told  me  no. 

"Could  I  do  anything?"  I  felt  that  I  might, 
indeed,  do  anything  for  this  poor,  pretty  Pink. 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  to  do,  but  wait.  But,  oh, 
Apollo,  never,  never  leave  anyone  who  loves  you! 
Never  go  away."  And  I  vowed  that  I  would  not, 
if  Anyone  should  ever  love  me.  We  paused  at 
Pink's  door,  there  where  all  her  sisters  made  the 
Garden  like  a  sunset  cloud;  and  where  Voix-belle 
had  once  deluged  the  world  with  the  golden  flood 
of  his  happiness.  And  as  we  stood,  I  heard  voices 
— an  ardent,  wooing,  velvet  voice,  and  then  a  low 
little  answering  laugh  that  I  knew  very  well. 
Florizel  came  walking  toward  us.  Her  arms  were 
filled  with  red  roses,  deep-hued,  golden-hearted, 
that  were  lavishing  their  petals  all  the  way  she 
came.  At  her  side  walked  the  owner  of  the  ar 
dent  wooing  velvet  voice.  Such  a  royal  beggar, 
I  had  never  seen.  His  once  sumptuous  suit  of 
dusky  red  velvet,  was  in  tatters;  but  his  sword 
was  bright  enough,  pricking  out  from  under  the 
gorgeous  rag  of  a  cape.  From  his  battered  cap 
flamed  a  flaunting  plume  and  a  broidered  waist 
coat  spread  its  raveled  gold  over  the  heart  of  him. 
In  his  dark  face  glowed  poet's  eyes  and  the  mouth 
of  Endymion.  And  as  I  listened  to  what  he  said  to 
Florizel,  I  knew,  that  here,  then,  was  a  poet,  in 
deed!  And  she,  looking  into  his  eyes,  over  the 
armful  of  his  flowers  she  held,  did  not  see  me  un 
til  we  quite  met.  Then, 

"Apollo!  You  have  come!"  and  then,  "This  is 
Prince  Charlie.  Are  they  not  beautiful?"  And 

96 


THE  LADY  IN  THE  FOUNTAIN 
"  Never,  never  go  away!  " 


she  held  out  his  flowers  to  me.  I  saluted  His 
Princeship  and  he  responded  with  fine  courtesy. 

"  This  is  Pink  Carnation."  The  girls  smiled 
into  each  others'  eyes.  Pink  and  the  Prince  were 
old  acquaintances.  We  talked  a  moment,  and 
then  Pink  slipped  away;  and  Florizel,  the  Prince 
and  I  went  on. 

"  I  had  heard  much  of  His  Highness,  but  by  an 
other  name,"  I  said.  Florizel  laughed. 

"His  nom  de  plume!"  The  Prince  shrugged — 

"  Nom  de  plume,  nom  de  guerre — "  he  touched 
his  rapier  carelessly. 

"Alias,"  I  concluded. 

"You  have  been  away  a  long  time,"  said  Flori 
zel.  "  Surely  you  have  something  to  tell  of  your 
adventures? " 

"  I  have  interviewed  law-breakers  and  the  vic 
tims  of  law-breakers;  I  have  assisted  at  conflagra 
tions  and  wrecks  and  run-aways,  and  all  unhap- 
piness." 

"  But — you  feel  that  you  have  accomplished 
something?  " 

"  I  have  earned,  by  dint  of  working  day  and 
night,  just  one-tenth  of  the  amount  of  the  royal 
ties  that  come  to  me  from  my  foolish  plays.  I 
have  learned  something  about  the  beginning  of 
what  is  meant  by  'news'  and  I  have  placed  my 
feet  in  the  way  that  may  lead,  after  infinite  tra 
vail,  to  the  desk  of  the  City  Editor.  That  is  the 
extent  of  my  horizon.  It  is  a  wider  view  than  you 
might  suppose." 

"  Ah,"  said  Florizel,  "  but  think  of  the  power  you 
have,  even  in  the  smallest  story,  of  moulding  the 
public  thought." 

97 


"  I  have  no  compunction,  for  the  public  mind 
will  not  retain  the  impression  of  any  mould  until 
the  evening  papers  are  out.  But  I  wish  it  might 
be  done  more  beautifully,  since  nothing  but  the 
doing  of  it  counts."  Florizel  sighed.  Billy  Wright 
Jr.,  coming  across  the  lawn,  discovered  me  with 
a  shout. 

"Oh,  Apollo!  Come  along  to  the  theatre.  I 
want  you  to  help  with  something."  I  turned  to 
Florizel. 

"  You  were  going  to  the  house?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  early.  I  shall  walk."  She  nodded, 
and  I  felt  myself  dismissed.  The  Prince  swept 
me  a  grave  bow,  and  they  turned  away  together, 
down  a  side  path.  But  he  did  not  wait  until  he 
was  beyond  hearing,  to  begin  his  infernally  good 
poetry. 

"  So  that's  Prince  Charlie.    I  have  always  known 
him  as  Ragged  Robin.     He's  a  mere  tramp,  if  he 
is  a  Prince  and  a  poet  and  beautiful  as — as  Bac 
chus!  " 
'"Aunt  Florizel  likes  his  poetry  all  right,  I  guess." 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is,  whether  she  really 
Sees  him."  Billy  Wright  Jr.  looked  at  me  queerly. 

"  You've  been  away  a  long  time,  Apollo!  " 
<S8T      38T      30^ 

Down  at  the  theatre  they  were  running  over 
the  last  act  of  my  play.  The  O.  F.  M.  was  to 
make  his  first  appearance  on  the  Garden  stage, 
and  he  was  in  a  terrible  flutter.  His  Company 
and  the  rival  Ganse  had  bought  out  the  entire 
gallery,  and  his  debut  promised  to  be  a  thing  of 
moment.  I  was  presented  to  the  new  leading 
lady,  and  all  at  once,  as  I  looked  at  her,  a  line 

98 


that  had  been  dreaming  in  my  mind  awoke,  and 
it  was — "As  white  as  snow,  as  red  as  blood,  and 
as  black  as  the  ebony  of  the  embroidery-frame." 
So  that  was  Snow  White!  I  said  to  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  afterwards, 

"  Of  course  I  remember  reading  about  her  in 
Grimm's.  But  whom  does  she  resemble?  I  have 
seen  someone  like  her — very  like." 

"  The  professor's  sister,  I  guess." 

"Of  course!" 

"All  the  People  know  about  the  professor's  sis 
ter.  She  is  a  real  Fairy.  But  she's  so  enchanted 
by  what  she's  read  that  maybe  she'll  never  wake 
up.  We're  waiting  to  see." 

"  I  guessed  as  much.  She  is  so  still.  Do  you 
think  the  Professor  is  a  Fairy,  too?" 

"  No  one  will  ever  know,  whether  he  is,  or  not, 
now."  Billy  Wright  Jr.  shook  his  head.  I  gath 
ered  that  the  professor's  case  was  hopeless.  I 
was  glad. 

We  lingered  so  long  that  the  twilight  had  come, 
with  its  songs  and  glimmers,  when  we  started 
back  to  the  house;  and  I  hastened  to  my  room  to 
prepare  myself  for  what  was  to  come.  I  had  reso 
lutely  turned  my  thoughts  from  speculations  as 
to  the  purpose  of  the  dinner.  Since  the  thought 
of  it  had  made  the  Grandmother  and  Florizel 
smile  happily,  I  was  glad  for  them.  But  since  it 
had  made  the  professor  smile  happily,  I  was  sorry 
for  me. 

On  the  stairway,  Billy  Wright  Jr.,  looking  very 
Fairy-like  in  whites,  with  stockings  and  slippers 
to  match,  clutched  me  excitedly. 

"  You  ought  to  see  Aunt  Florizel — she's  got  a 

99 


softy  greeny  dress  with  twinkle-beads,  and  no 
sleeves  at  all,  and  her  shoulders  are  as  white!  She 
looks  just  like  a  Hamadryad  in  the  moonlight!  " 
I  followed  the  little  poet  down  stairs  and  found 
that  all  he  had  said  was  quite  true. 

Oh,  that  was  a  miserable  dinner.  I  couldn't  talk 
to  the  professor's  sister.  The  few  remarks  I  ven 
tured,  she  met  with  silence — stillness.  She  was 
like  a  person  in  the  profoundest  of  enchanted 
slumbers.  And  I  suppose  her  mind  was  busy 
among  the  chemical  properties  of  the  things  we 
were  eating.  Florizel  sat  at  the  professor's  right 
hand.  She  was  the  loveliest  vision  that  ever  glad 
dened  the  eyes  of  men.  My  thoughts  went  whirl 
ing,  tossed  this  way  and  that  by  the  little  breezes 
that  crept  in  from  the  Garden  to  puff  at  the  shaded 
candles.  A  thousand  scenes  pictured  themselves 
to  my  dreaming  eyes,  and  every  scene  held  Flori 
zel.  A  tiny  girl  with  an  apron  full  of  Flower 
Fairies;  a  little  larger  girl,  dreaming  over  an  old 
blue  book,  or  wishing  to  the  first  star  in  the  pale 
evening  sky,  and  a  tall,  slim  girl  being  Diana  for 
the  Hamadryads.  I  saw  how  two  little  people 
trudged,  hand  in  hand,  to  the  highest  part  of  the 
Garden,  which  was  the  orchard.  And  they  climbed 
into  a  gnarled  old  peach  tree  and  looked  out  to 
ward  the  singing  blue  world  where  white  ships 
were  sailing;  and  Florizel  said  to  me, 

"  My  mother  and  I  came  from  out  there,"  and, 
"  I  think  the  Captain  loves  me  as  much  as  if  I 
were  his  very  own  little  girl,  don't  you  ? "  The 
Captain  was  what  we  called  him,  before  he  be 
came  the  Grandfather  on  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  ac 
count.  And  I  said, 

100 


"  You  are  his  own.  The  Captain  is  a  Fairy  and 
your  Mother  is  and  you  are  and  I  am  and  we  all 
belong."  And  then  I  saw  how  Florizel  had  loos 
ened  the  hold  of  one  fat  hand,  and  had  put  a 
chubby  arm  about  my  neck  and  kissed  me  at  the 
peril  of  both  our  lives.  Other  visions  I  saw,  of  a 
boy  who  brought  all  his  troubles  to  the  wisest, 
sweetest  most  loyal  friend  a  boy  ever  had — and 
all  these  dreams  and  visions  held  me  fast  until 
a  sound  from  the  quiet  lady  beside  me  brought  me 
back  to  the  dinner.  The  quiet  lady  was  smiling. 
Why?  I  looked.  Her  brother,  the  professor,  had 
risen.  He  was  saying  that  he  had  an  announce 
ment  to  make;  one  that  made  him  very  proud 
and  happy.  I  looked  at  Florizel.  She  was  rosy, 
downcast.  I  turned  to  the  White  Magic  Grand 
mother.  She  was  smiling  fondly  at  Florizel  and 
the  professor.  So  it  was  for  this,  the  dinner! 
The  professor  had  an  announcement  to  make — 
one  that  made  him  very  proud  and  happy,  and  I 
was  there  to  hear  it-  My  visions  flew  into  bits, 
like  smashed  rainbows.  Cruel  Florizel,  to  lead 
her  captive  bound  in  her  triumph!  I  envied  the 
Nice  Boy,  away  measuring  his  mountain  where 
no  one  could  be  moved  to  smiles  by  his  grief. 
Presently  the  professor  raised  his  glass,  and  all 
the  guests  rose  and  raised  their  glasses.  So  did 
I.  Only  Florizel  remained  seated,  rosy  and  down 
cast.  All  at  once  she  looked  up  and  smiled  into 
my  eyes,  happily.  Cruel  Florizel! 

What  had  the  professor  said?  What  had  he  said 
that  had  made  Florizel  happy — that  had  made  him 
happy — everyone  happy  but  me?  I  didn't  know, 
but  I  guessed  that  he  had  said  that  Florizel  was 

101 


to  marry  him  and  learn  to  chemically  analyze  the 
songs  of  birds. 

When  that  awful  dinner  was  over,  I  managed 
to  be  among  the  first  to  congratulate  the  profes 
sor  and  wish  Florizel  happiness.  Then  I  strug 
gled  out  of  the  crowd  and  out  of  the  house.  The 
Garden  was  hushed  as  I  went  by.  There  was  only 
a  sobbing  in  the  fountain,  and  a  faint  wind  laid  a 
cool  hand  on  my  eyes;  and  then  went  on  with  a 
little  sigh.  I  came  to  the  Green  House,  and  felt 
a  desire  for  the  company  of  the  god  who  had  lost 
his  flower.  A  dim  green  light  shone  in  the  depths 
of  the  place,  and  when  I  had  gone  three  steps,  I 
saw  the  shine  of  a  green  twinkle-bead  gown  and 
the  gleam  of  a  white  arm.  I  heard  a  little  low 
laugh  that  I  knew  very  well.  So  I  turned  back 
into  the  dark  Garden.  The  Green  House,  I  re 
flected,  was  a  place  for  happy  people.  Billy  Wright 
Jr.  found  me  and  we  went  to  the  theatre.  The 
neighborhood  swarmed  with  Pixies. 

"  'Tis  the  Captain  makes  his  dayboo  the  night!  " 
They  told  me,  and  I  smiled  to  think  of  the  Origin 
al  Funny  Man  making  a  debut  at  his  time  of  life. 
But  when  I  saw  him,  he  was  in  as  wild  a  flutter 
as  he  could  possibly  have  been  at  his  long-ago 
first  appearance.  He  was  wandering  about  from 
room  to  room  making  sickish  jokes  and  looking 
preternaturalljr  serious. 

"  Coin'  to  the  show?"  he  asked  me,  and  before 
I  could  answer,  "Is  it  thirrsty  ye  arre?"  And 
he  hooked  his  wing  in  mine  and  drew  me  away 
toward  his  dressing  room.  But  Billy  Wright  Jr. 
interfered. 

"  See  here,  O.  F.  M.,  there's  a  limit.     Go  make 

102 


up."  It  was  early,  but  the  O.  F.  M.  was  in  a  panic, 
instantly,  lest  he  be  late.  So  we  left  him,  before 
his  mirror,  swathed  in  a  towel,  "  lining  in  "  his 
make-up  with  feverish  care.  I  went  out  in  front 
to  see  the  People  come  in,  and  Puck  went  by,  sing 
ing  in  that  strange  young-old  voice  of  his.  I  had 
not  seen  him  so  cheerful  since  the  day  on  which 
Oiseau  d'Or  left  the  Garden. 

"  Hello  there!  "  I  seized  him  by  the  arm.  "Why 
such  haste?"  He  scarcely  slackened  his  pace,  nor 
paused  in  his  song,  but  he  smiled  and  drew  me 
along  with  him. 

We  halted  beneath  the  jasmine  vine.  There 
was  a  glow  behind  the  casement  that  I  had  once 
seen  open  to  frame  the  face  of  radiant  Oiseau 
d'Or. 

"Oiseau  d'Or!"  I  breathed.  In  a  moment  she 
was  with  us.  She  and  two  others — very  enchant 
ing  Persons.  I  was  presented,  to  Levres  de  Miel, 
and  to  Rose  Blanche,  and  later,  to  a  very  fine  old 
gentleman  who  was  their  escort.  The  Red  Beetle 
buzzed  up,  and  in  a  few  moments  we  were  all 
at  the  theatre.  Going  in,  I  had  just  a  word  with 
Oiseau  d'Or. 

"  But—" 

"Sh!"  She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  with  a 
charming  air  of  conspiracy.  "  I  am  a  fugitive! — 
Ah  yes!"  when  I  looked  my  dismay.  Then  she 
smiled.  "A  fugitive.  This  it  is,  to  love  a  dreamer 
of  dreams.  One  does  not  dream  of  one's  sure  pos 
sessions.  So,  I  am  a  fugitive.  Remember  this, 
when  your  dreams  come  true!  "  I  left  them,  and 
went  to  find  my  own  favorite  seat,  for  the  play 
was  about  to  commence.  I  pondered.  So  this 

103 


Reveur  des  Reves,  when  he  had  caught  his  golden 
bird,  fell  to  dreaming  other  dreams,  no  doubt. 
But  I  guessed  that  they  had  run  more  sweetly  for 
the  accompanying  song  of  Oiseau  d'Or.  But  she 
was  right,  perhaps.  If  a  man  must  dream,  what 
more  beautiful  dream  could  he  pursue  than  an 
ever-flitting  golden  bird?  I  thought  of  him,  rid 
ing  up  and  down  the  wide  world,  sometimes  with 
a  golden  wing  in  sight,  sometimes  through  empty 
forests,  sometimes  with  a  faint  song  to  guide  him; 
riding  home  at  last,  empty  hearted,  to  find  the 
golden  bird  nestled  close. 

I  heard  the  signal  for  the  curtain,  and  the  or 
chestra  struck  up.  Someone  rustled  beside  me. 
There  was  a  faint  green  gleam  and  a  flash  of 
twinkle  beads.  Florizel  looked  at  me  through  Billy 
Wright  Jr.'s  mother's  spangled  veil.  Cloud-draped 
star-decked  Diana!  Far  back  in  the  Garden  I  heard 
glad  voices  calling  like  the  wind  from  tree  to  tree, 

"Diana,  Diana  has  returned!" 

Florizel  sat  beside  me. 

"  Please  do  not  exorcise  me,  I  came  to  see  the 
play,"  she  said.  Said  I  to  myself, 

"A  laughing  god  was  I,  who  am  now  bereft  of 
my  flower,  so  that  my  tears  run  endlessly  over 
my  face  that  was  meant  to  be  so  happy.  A  dream 
er  of  dreams  am  I,  whose  golden  bird  forgets  its 
song  in  the  cage  of  another.  I  am  a  Pierrot  who 
has  lost  his  Pierrette,  a  Voix-belle  forever  separat 
ed  from  his  Pink.  The  old  gods  are  dead,  and 
there  are  no  new  ones.  Shall  I  not  have  this 
hour?"  So  I  slipped  my  arm  about  Florizel  and 
she  rested  her  head  against  my  shoulder,  and  to 
gether  we  watched  the  play. 

104 


THE  SEVENTH  CHAPTER  REVEALS 
A  FANTASTIC  SHADOWING  FORTH 
OF  A  BOY'S  HEART  AND  MAKES 
SOME  VAGUE  GUESSES  AT  A  GIRL'S 


Florizel  and  I  sat  still  and  watched,  and  this  is 
what  we  saw: 

THE  CAST. 

The  Boy  Pierrot 

The  Grown-up  Original  Funny  Man 

The  Teacher  Billy  Wright  Jr. 

The  Other  Boy  Tommy  Tucker 

The  Fairy  Puck 

The  Girl  Pierrette 

The  Teacher's  Sister  Snow  White 


ACT  I. 

It  is  morning  in  the  Garden.  There  is  a  Singing 
far  away  and  near  at  hand,  that  comes  from  the 
deptli^s  of  the  air  and  from  every  sunlit  leaf  and  from 
deep  in  the  ground. 

THE  SINGING. 

Tall  grass  growing,  growing, 
Sea-wind  blowing,  blowing, 

Hill-tops,  it  is  May! 
New  things  springing,  springing, 
Old  songs  singing,  singing, 

Come  away! 

105 


•4- 


Said  Florizel  to  me,  "What  is  that  sound?  We 
used  to  say  the  bells  were  ringing  deep  down  inside 
the  hills — do  you  remember? — because  it  was 
Spring.  I  haven't  heard  it  since  I  was  little,  little. 
What  is  it?  "  "  Magic,  pure  magic!  "  said  I. 

There  is  a  casement  in  the  midst  of  roses.  A  sun 
beam  falls  across  the  lattice,  and  out  of  the  sunbeam 
steps  a  Fairy.  The  Singing  goes  on  as  before.  The 
Fairy  taps  at  the  lattice.  The  Singing  falls  faint  as 
the  lattice  opens.  The  Girl  is  at  the  casement,  among 
the  roses. 

THE  GIRL. 
Who  calls  me  hillwardf 

THE  FAIRY. 
The  day,  the  day! 

Come  and   take   the   hill-top  way! 
Soft  is  the  hillsward, 
Green,  gold,  red. 
There's  a  Singing  overhead — 
Ohe,  sweet  life,  it  is  May! 

The  Singing  begins  again,  humming  and  chiming 
and  swelling  like  a  great  bell,  till  all  the  earth  and 
air  are  full  of  it.  The  Fairy  takes  the  Girl  by  the 
hand  and  they  come  down  from  the  casement.  .  .  . 
Enter  the  Boy.  He  is  dragging  a  blue  cart,  and  sing 
ing. 

THE  BOY. 
It  is  morning,  it  is  May! 

(Ho!  I  have  a  fine  blue  cart!) 
W hat  delights  adorn  this  day! 

(Wheels  of  red,  that  come  apart!) 


106 


"That  cart!  Wherever  did  he  get  it,  Apollo? 
And  do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  call  you 
the  singing  boy? "  Florizel  spoke  dreamily. 
"  Because  you  waked  everybody  up  at  dawn  with 
your  singing.  Away  off  there  by  yourself,  in 
your  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  so  sweet 
ly  singing,  singing,  like  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate. 
You  were  a  dear  little  boy!"  There  was  a  tear 
ful  note  in  her  voice  that  made  me  wonder  wheth 
er  all  young  ladies  who  are  going  to  be  very. 
very  happy,  grow  wistful  over  the  little  boys  they 
used  to  know.  And  then  I  reminded  myself  that 
I  was  an  ungrateful  wretch,  and  not  likely  to 
make  the  most  of  my  hour,  if  I  permitted  such 
bitterness. 

THE  SINGING. 

Hill-bells  ringing,  ringing, 
Come  away! 

Old  songs  singing,  singing, 
It  is  May! 

THE  BOY. 
(To  the  Girl.) 

Would  you  like  to  ride  in  my  blue  cart?  I  will 
take  you  on  a  journey. 

THE  GIRL. 

A  far  one? 

THE  BOY. 
Very  far.     To  the  end  of  the  Garden! 

THE  GIRL. 
No  further? 

THE  BOY. 

Oh,  outside  the  Garden,  that  would  be  very  far! 
Ships  are  there,  and  mermaids. 

107 


THE  GIRL. 

/  came  from  out  there.  Sometime  I  shall  go  back. 
But  I  will  ride  in  your  blue  cart  now. 

She  gets  into  the  cart,  and  he  starts  to  drag  it.  But 
the  wheels  come  apart  and  the  Girl  gets  out  while  he 
mends  them. 

"We  never  got  very  far  in  that  cart.  The  wheels 
always  came  apart."  Florizel  laughed. 

"  That  was  the  great  trouble  with  my  under 
takings,"  said  I.  "  The  wheels  always  came 
apart." 

"  But  you  didn't  mind."  Again  she  laughed 
softly.  "  You  made  songs  about  your  broken 
wheels,  and  made  us  think  that  they  were  better 
than  other  people's  solid  ones.  That  was  one  of 
the  sweetest  things  about  you!"  When  a  girl 
got  engaged  to  someone  else,  I  reflected,  she  be 
came  compassionate,  and  said  beautiful  things  of 
you,  even  to  your  face,  as  though  you  were  dead 
— as  indeed  you  were!  x 

THE  BOY. 

(Sorrowfully,  after  trying  in  vain  to  make  the  cart 
wheels  stay  fixed.) 
I  cannot  take  you  on  a  journey. 

THE  GIRL. 

Never  mind,  then.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  ?  Per 
haps  the  Fairy  will  tell  us  a  story. 

THE  FAIRY. 

(W ho    has   been   dancing   in   the  sunbeam.) 
Let's  each  tell  a  story,  and  the  best  shall  have  three 
wishes ! 

108 


THE  GIRL  AND  THE  BOY. 

Lefs! 

They  sit  down  on  the  grass,  the  three  of  them,  and 
the  Fays  come  out  from  the  leafy  places  and  gather 
around  to  listen. 

THE  GIRL. 
The  Fairy  first,  then  the  Boy,  then  I. 

THE  FAIRY. 

The  rose-heart  held  a  drop  of  rain. 
The  parched  bee,  dragging  wings  of  pain, 
Crept  in,  drank,  and  Hew  again! 

THE  BOY. 

Once  my  cart  got  hard  to  hold. 
Far  and  very  far  it  rolled. 
And  its  wheels  were  made  of  gold! 


"  Oh  Apollo!  "  Florizel  squeezed  my  hand  kind- 


ly. 


"  I  was  a  hopeful  little  beggar,"  said  I. 


THE  GIRL. 

The  blind  King,  bound  with  chains  was  he. 
A  fair  child,  singing  happily, 
Kissed  his  eyes,  and  set  him  free! 

THE  FAIRY. 
Now,  who  has  told  the  best  story? 

THE  FAYS. 

(Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands.) 
The  Girl!    The  Girl! 

109 


THE  GIRL. 

Oh,  no,  the  others  were  nice,  too.  Lefs  each  have 
one  wish.  First  the  Fairy,  then  the  Boy,  then  I. 

THE  FAIRY. 

Two  stars  fell  from  heaven  last  night.  I  wish  they 
may  meet  at  last. 

THE  BOY. 
/  wish  I  knew  what  the  flowers  think. 

THE  GIRL. 

/  wish  that  every  child  in  the  world  may  have  a 
happy  dream  to-night. 

The  Fays  join  hands  with  the  Fairy  and  the  Boy, 
and  all  dance  around  the  Girl.  The  Singing  grows 
louder. 


"Was  I  ever  such  a  nice  child?"  Florizel  asked 
me. 

"  No  words  of  mine  can  tell  how  nice.  It  must 
be  Pierrette's  acting." 

"  Dear  little  Pierrot!  I  remember  you — it  was 
long  ago,  wasn't  it?" 


T]ve  voice  of  the  Grown-up  is  heard  calling.  The 
Singing  ceases.  The  Fays  and  the  Fairy  and  the  Boy 
run  away  among  the  flowers.  The  Girl  is  left  alone. 
.  .  .  Enter  the  Grown-up  and  the  Teacher  and  the 
Teacher's  Sister,  who  is  a  little  girl,  and  the  Other 
Boy.  The  Teacher's  Sister  has  her  eyes  tightly  blind 
folded. 

110 


THE  GROWN-UP. 

Well,  well,  here  we  are!  This  is  your  teacher,  little 
Girl,  and  he  will  teach  you  a  great  many  useful  things. 

THE  GIRL. 
/  know  some  things  now. 

THE  GROWN-UP. 

Well,  well,  that  is  very  nice!  (Smiling  sourly) 
What  things  do  you  know? 

THE  GIRL. 

7  know  what  the  sun  says  to  the  tree-tops,  and 
where  the  wind  goes,  and  I  used  to  know  why  the 
waves  dance.  But  I  have  forgotten. 


"  I  did  know  those  things,"  said  Florizel,  "  and 
it  was  only  yesterday!"  She  bent  a  pensive 
glance  upon  the  funny  "  business  "  of  the  O.  F.  M. 
and  Billy  Wright  Jr.  "  How  could  I  have  for 
gotten  so  much?"  she  asked  me.  How  could  I' 
tell  her? 


THE  OTHER  BOY. 

I  know  the  multiplication  table  backwards,  up  to 
twelve! 

THE  TEACHER'S  SISTER. 
7  know  the  Kings  of  England. 

THE  GIRL. 
Do  you  see  Fairies? 

Ill 


THE  OTHER  BOY. 

/  could,  but  I  must  not.  Girls  may.  They  tie  up 
her  eyes  so  she  can't. 

THE  TEACHER. 

Come,  my  dear,  and  you  shall  learn  all  these  things 
and  a  great  many  more.  Do  you  know  who  fought 
the  battle  of  Waterloo?  No?  Then  I  will  tell  you. 

THE  GIRL. 
Is  it  a  story? 

THE  TEACHER. 

(Taking  the  Girl  by  the  hand.) 
Yes,  a  very  great  story.     I  will  tell  you. 

THE  GIRL. 

A  pretty  story?  (She  turns  back  to  call  the  Boy, 
but  he  is  still  hiding  among  the  flowers.)  .  .  . 
Exit  the  Teacher  and  the  Girl,  followed  by  the 
Grown-up  and  the  Other  Boy  and  the  Teacher's 
Sister.  .  .  .  When  they  have  gone,  the  Boy  comes 
out  from  his  hiding  place  and  kneels  down,  trying  to 
mend  the  wheels  of  his  cart. 

CURTAIN. 


"Oh,  that  wicked  Billy  Wright  Jr.!  Isn't  he 
clever?  The  poor  Professor!"  But  Florizel  was 
not  at  all  as  angry  as  she  might  have  been. 

We    were    silent,    while    the    theatre-orchestra 

112 


gave  us  a  truly  fine  little  thing  in  the  way  of  a 
serenade. 

"Dear  little  Pierrot,  with  the  broken  cart!  I 
remember  that  you  went  on  some  pretty  far 
journeys  in  that  cart,  even  in  spite  of  the  wheels 
that  would  come  apart.  And  you  always  came 
back  and  told  me,  oh,  such  wonders!  I  know! 
You  had  gold  wheels  hidden  away  somewhere, 
and  when  no  one  was  looking,  you  clapped  them 
on,  and  away  you  went.  Confess — that  is  where 
you  have  been,  now.  And  you  would  scarcely 
come  back,  even  to  my  dinner.  Why  don't  you 
tell  me  where  you  have  been  on  your  gold 
wheels?  " 

"  No.  Those  gold  wheels  were  a  dream  of  my 
youth.  I  confess  that  it  was  hard  to  give  up  my 
belief  in  them.  But  of  late  I  have  become  prac 
tical,  at  the  earnest  request  of  my  friends,  and 
I  have  been  fitting  that  cart  up  with  a  motor  and 
rubber  tires.  It  may  take  me  somewhere,  yet." 

Florizel  sighed.  But  what  she  would  have  said, 
I  do  not  know,  for  the  curtain  rose  upon  the 
second  act. 


ACT  II. 

It  is  noon  in  the  Garden.  There  is  everywhere  a 
low,  deep  hum  or  murmuring,  but  no  creature  stirs. 
The  Boy  lies  upon  a  mossy  bank,  his  hands  clasped 
under  his  head.  He  is  older  and  taller,  and  dressed 
in  white  tennis  flannels.  He  wears  a  wreath  of  laurel, 
and  a  broad  blue  scarf  falls  loosely  across  his  left 
shoulder.  He  sings. 

113 


THE  BOY. 

White  noon  lies  dreaming  on  the  hills. 
Her  quiet  breath,  from  fragrant  parted  lips, 
Stirs  in  the  murmurous  sliade,  and  gently  fills 
The  lazy  sails  of  little  boats.    Life  stills 
His  happy-hearted  laughter  while  he  sips 
Her  quiet  breath,  from  fragrant  parted  lips. 
White  noon  lies  dreaming  on  the  hills. 

The  songs  of  all  the  hearts  are  stilled, 
Save  that  low  song  that  smiling  nature  croons 
In  the  warm  silence.     The  green  world  is  filled 
With  happy  dreaming  creatures,  who  have  thrilled 
Beneath  the  warmth  of  lips  as  soft  as  June's. 
Save  the  low  song  that  smiling  nature  croons, 
The  songs  of  all  the  hearts  are  stilled. 

The  Girl  comes  slowly  into  view  through  the  trees. 
She,  too,  is  taller  and  slimmer.  Her  straight  white 
frock  is  girded  up  to  the  left  knee.  Across  her 
shoulder  is  a  silver  chain,  bearing  a  silver  horn.  A 
silver  crescent  shines  upon  her  forehead.  Her  bare 
feet  are  sandaled. 

"  My  moon-crown!  "  whispered  Florizel.  "Where 
did  you  find  it?  " 


The  Girl  lifts  the  horn  to  her  lips  and  blows  a 
faint  whispering  call.  Far  and  near,  through  all  the 
trees,  rises  and  falls  a  soft  laughter.  Then  all  is  still 
again,  but  the  low  murmur,  as  before.  7  he  Girl  sits 
beside  the  Boy  and  rests  her  chin  in  her  hands. 
Somewhere  in  the  trees  a  Dryad  begins  to  sing. 

114 


THE  DRYAD. 
In  the  oak's  heart, 
There  dwell  I, 
Happily— 
See  the  birds  dart 
Free  and  high! 

Where  the  oak  clings, 
There  cling  I. 
Hill  and  sky — 
Hear  the  wind's  wings 
Rustling  by! 

When  the  oak  sings, 

Sing  I  low, 

Swaying,  so, 

When  my  branch  swings 

To  and  fro! 

THE  GIRL. 
(To  the  Boy.) 
Have  they  bothered  you  to-day? 

THE  BOY. 
Yes.     They  want  me  to  go  to  college. 

THE  GIRL. 
Are  you  going? 

THE  BOY. 

Perhaps.     But  you  must  keep  all  our  secrets  for 
me.    Promise  that  you  will  forget  none  of  them. 

THE  GIRL. 

/  promise.     Of  course  I  will  not  forget.     But  you 
may. 

115 


THE  BOY. 
I  may. 

THE  GIRL. 

/  hear  them  coming  now.  I  am  going.  Good-bye! 
Do  not  forget!  She  goes  away  through  the  trees. 
Her  silver  horn  can  be  heard,  and  after  it,  the  soft 
laughter  rising  and  falling,  hushing,  then  growing 
louder. 

"  I  shall  never  be  as  happy  as  I  was  then,"  said 
Florizel. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE   GROWN-UP. 
Well,  well,  that  is  very  nice! 

Enter  the  Grown-up  and  the  Teacher  and  the 
Teacher's  Sister  and  the  Other  Boy. 

THE  GROWN-UP. 

Ah,  here  is  the  Boy.  So  you  are  going  to  College, 
eh,  my  boy? 

THE  BOY. 
/  suppose  so. 

THE  TEACHER. 

What,  what,  don't  you  know?  Come,  come,  put 
aside  all  this  foolishness  and  be  off  with  you.  It  is 
high  time,  is  it  not? 

THE  GROWN-UP. 
High  time,  indeed! 

The  Boy  removes  his  laurel  and  the  blue  scarf  re 
gretfully,  and  goes  slowly  away. 

THE  GROWN-UP. 

Well,  well,  that  is  very  nice.  He  will  learn  a  great 
deal  at  college!  Now,  children,  let  us  see  what  you 
have  learned. 

116 


Florizel  turned  to  me,  after  listening  to  the  ab 
surdities  of  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  idea  of  a  class  in 
Chemistry. 

"  Children  are  taught  an  immense  deal  of  non 
sense,  aren't  they?  "  I  nodded.  The  Other  Boy, 
and  the  Teacher's  Sister  were  doing  experiments 
with  glass  bottles  and  colored  fires  and  reciting 
doggerel  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  Fairy 
audience.  But  Florizel  was  grave. 

"  I  believe  that  the  whole  system  of  education 
is  wrong!  What  can  children  possibly  learn  that 
will  be  as  important  in  forming  beautiful  charac 
ter,  as  the  things  they  all  know  to  begin  with?" 
She  turned  to  me,  breathless  and  starry-eyed  with 
her  discovery.  And  I  said,  "What,  indeed!" 


The  Other  Boy,  and  the  Teacher's  Sister,  who  is 
still  blindfolded,  are  doing  a  very  beautiful  experi 
ment,  and  the  Grown-up  and  the  Teacher  retire  to 
one  side,  and  watch  them.  The  Other  Boy  throws 
a  stone  upon  the  fire,  from  which  rises  a  four-colored 
name.  The  Teacher  begins  to  recite  a  charm. 

The  silver  horn  blows  clear  and  high,  and  the 
laughter  rises  all  about  them,  but  none  of  them  heeds. 
There  is  a  rushing  and  swaying  in  the  branches.  A 
great  Fairy  stag  breaks  through  the  leaves  and 
charges  across  the  open  space.  He  is  followed  by  the 
Girl  and  all  the  Wood  People  in  full  chase.  Their 
laughter  rings  on  every  hand,  and  the  cry  of  "Diana!" 
The  Other  Boy  leaps  to  his  feet,  calling  "Diana!"  and 
joins  in  the  chase.  They  pass  like  the  summer  wind. 
The  Teacher's  Sister  turns  her  head  and  listens  wist 
fully;  but  continues  her  work  over  the  four-colored 

117 


flame.  The  Grown-up,  and  the  Teacher,  who  still 
mumbles  his  spell,  have  not  seen  nor  heard  anything. 
The  Teacher's  Sister,  mixing  the  contents  of  all  the 
little  glasses,  produces  a  great  green  and  black  flower, 
from  the  heart  of  which  leap  up  little  tongues  of 
flame.  The  laughter  dies  away,  and  the  Teacher's 
voice  rises  in  a  weird  chant.  There  is  a  rustling 
among  the  leaves,  and  the  Girl  appears.  She  is  look 
ing  at  the  green  and  black  flower.  She  takes  the 
moon  from  her  head  and  unslings  her  horn.  She  un- 
girds  her  frock  and  comes  slowly  to  kneel  beside  the 
Teacher's  Sister.  The  Other  Boy  follows.  The 
Teacher,  waving  his  arms  in  great  excitement,  pro 
nounces  a  spell  that  fills  the  air  with  dazzling  mists, 
till  they  all  are  hidden  from  our  sight. 

CURTAIN. 


"  Poor  Apollo,  I  did  forget  all  our  secrets,  didn't 
I?  But  you  remembered  them  for  yourself.  That 
was  lucky! " 

"  The  only  thing  that  made  them  worth  re 
membering,  was  that  they  were  ours."  We  sat 
for  a  while  and  listened  to  the  murmuring  voices 
of  the  audience.  And  I  don't  know  whether  Flor- 
izel  heard  them,  but  the  Wood  People  were  re 
joicing  far  and  near  through  the  Garden.  Once 
she  turned  to  look  at  me  squarely. 

"  You  are  not  like  yourself — what  has  come  to 
you  ?  " 

"How?" 

"  You  are  usually  cheerful,  at  least."  She  drew  a 
little  away  from  me. 

118 


"  It  may  be  a  distinction,  to  be  dragged  at  the 
wheels  of  triumph,"  I  said.  "  But  it  doesn't  make 
one  cheerful,  necessarily."  She  hesitated,  then 
laughed  uncertainly. 

"My  triumph?  Oh!  You  didn't  mind  that?" 
And  the  only  answer  I  had  was  silence;  and  I 
listened  while  the  faint  cries  of  "Diana!"  were 
lost  in  the  overture  to  the  third  act. 


ACT  III, 

It  is  night  in  the  Garden.  There  is  a  light  rain, 
falling  upon  all  the  whispering  leaves.  The  wind 
comes  in  gusts.  The  moon  shines  faintly  behind  the 
hurrying  clouds.  Rain-voices  and  wind-voices  sing 
the  song  of  the  night.  .  .  .  The  Fairy  enters  and 
goes  tapping  upon  the  casement  among  the  dripping 
roses.  The  casement  swings  open,  and  the  Girl  ap 
pears.  She  is  blind. 

THE  GIRL. 
Who  taps  at  my  window? 

THE  FAIRY. 

The  night!    The  night! 
Come  out  in  the  rain, 
Come,  feel  the  wind  blow! 
There's  a  faint  green  light 
From  the  rain-wet  moon — 
The  wind  again! 
Dawn  comes  soon! 

119 


THE  GIRL. 
/  can't  come  out.  I  have  forgotten  the  way. 

The  Fairy  flies  away.     .     .    .    Enter  the  Boy.    He 
is  singing. 

THE  BOY. 

All  day  long,  and  all  day  long, 
I  have  followed  the  voice  of  a  song. 
It  stirred  with  the  dawn-wind's  first  faint  sigh — 
A  far  sweet  cry! 
Down  the  wide  halls  of  the  day 
It  sang.    I  followed  all  the  way; 
Through  the  gardens  of  the  west — 
Held  you  that  to  stay  were  best? 
All  the  night's  dim  paths  along, 
I  follow  the  voice  of  the  song! 

THE  GIRL. 
Boyf 

THE  BOY. 
Come  into  the  Garden! 

THE  GIRL. 

/  can  not.    But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  you  must 
not  sing.     You  must  do  something  useful. 

THE  BOY. 
What? 

THE  GIRL. 
Oh,  anything  that  is  unpleasant. 

THE  BOY. 
/  only  know  how  to  sing. 

THE  GIRL. 
But  that  is  not  useful  nor  learned. 

120 


THE  BOY. 

It  is  the  only  thing  I  know. 
Enter  the  Teacher's  Sister  and  the  Other  Boy. 

THE  OTHER  BOY. 

Now  I  have  just  built  a  house,  and  I  am  going  to 
make  a  poem. 

THE  TEACHER'S  SISTER. 

/  have  the  voices  of  twelve  nightingales  in  this  jar. 
I  have  found  that  they  are  three  parts  salt  and  four 
parts  honey  and  seven  parts  wine  and  the  rest  cream. 

THE  GIRL. 

How  useful  you  both  are! 

Enter  the  Teacher  and  the  Grown-up. 

THE  TEACHER. 

We  have  just  found  that  the  heart  of  a  bee  con 
tains  two  grains  of  gold. 

THE  GIRL. 
Oh,  how  learned! 


"  Oh,  what  nonsense!  Apollo,  how  could  you 
write  such  stuff?  " 

"  You  have  been  asking  me  that,  for  a  life 
time,"  said  I.  Florizel  pouted.  And  she  refused 
to  listen  to  the  nonsense  I  had  written  for  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  and  the  Fairies.  And  so  she  failed  to 
learn  how  the  Boy  refused  to  have  more  to  do 
with  the  Teacher  and  his  unholy  practices;  and 
how  he  was  going  his  glad  way,  when  the  Wood 
People  appealed  to  him  to  save  Diana  for  them. 


121 


So  he  went  back  to  bargain  with  the  Teacher. 
And  here  Florizel  became  interested  again. 

"What  are  they  doing  now?"  she  asked  me. 

"  The  Boy  is  going  to  give  his  memory  and  his 
eyes,  so  that  the  Girl  may  have  her's  back." 

"  Sometimes  you  are  almost  horrid,  Apollo." 

"  I  had  to  make  an  interesting  play,"  I  protest 
ed.  "  Not  that  any  Boy  wouldn't  cheerfully  do 
it,  if  it  would  do  any  good."  She  seemed  to  un 
derstand.  But  she  turned  troubled  eyes  to  the 
stage,  without  speaking.  The  Girl  had  resumed 
her  moon-crown  and  silver  horn,  and  had  girded 
up  her  frock.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  dawn 
was  breaking. 

"  You  see,  a  Fairy  play  must  have  a  happy  end 
ing,"  I  said. 


The  Boy  joins  the  Teacher's  Sister  and  the  Other 
Boy  over  their  books.  As  the  sun  comes  up,  the  Sing 
ing  begins.  But  the  Teacher  and  the  Grown-up,  mut 
tering  spells  over  the  three,  keep  them  from  hearing 
it.  The  Girl  stands  with  her  horn  at  her  lips. 

THE  SINGING. 

Green  things  growing,  growing, 
Sea  winds  blowing,  blowing, 

Children,  it  is  day! 
New  things  springing,  springing, 
Old  songs  singing,  singing, 

Come  away! 

The  Girl  blows  a  long,  sweet  blast  on  the  horn. 
Laughter  passes  through  the  Garden  like  a  wind. 

122 


THE  GIRL. 
Boy! 

The  Boy  does  not  raise  his  head.  The  Teacher  con 
tinues  his  mumbled  spells.  The  Girl  goes  away 
slowly,  calling  "Boy!"  once  or  twice,  as  she  goes. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  write  such  nonsense." 
And  again  Florizel  refused  to  look  on  at  Billy 
Wright  Jr.'s  idea  of  the  Professor.  But  present 
ly  she  listened,  for  the  Girl  was  singing. 

THE  GIRL. 
High  on  the  hill-tops  the  loud  winds  are  singing, 

Listen,  my  heart,  and  be  glad! 
Purple  and  gold,  and  wild  bells  ringing, 
Banners  high  to  the  mast-head  clinging, 

Heart  of  a  lad!  Heart  of  a  lad! 

The  three  enchanted  children  move  restlessly.  The 
Other  Boy  raises  his  head  and  gazes  off  into  the 
Garden.  The  Girl's  voice  comes  nearer. 

Low  at  the  hill-foot  the  poppies  are  singing. 

Listen,  my  heart,  and  be  glad! 
Glow-worm  to  the  grass-stalk  clinging, 
Grey  moth  through  the  dim  light  winging, 

Heart  of  a  lad!  heart  of  a  lad! 
The  Teacher's  Sister  takes  the  bandage  from  her 
eyes,  and  looks  about  her.     The  Boy  raises  his  head, 
as  though  awakening.     The  Other  Boy  leaps  up  and 
calls  "Diana!" 

The  horn  rings  again,  and  the  sound  of  laughter 
grows  louder  and  gladder.  The  leaves  and  branches 
sway,  and  presently  all  the  Wood  People  burst  into 
the  place,  dancing  in  the  early  sunshine.  The  Teacher, 

123 


foolishly  repeating  his  spells,  is  drawn  into  the  dance, 
and  he  and  the  Grown-up  are  drawn  this  way  and 
that  in  the  swirling,  swaying  dance  about  the  four 
glad  children,  who  can  see  and  remember  all  they 
ever  knew. 

The  Singing  grows  louder,  louder,  mingled  with 
cries  of  "Diana!"  The  Fairy  appears  in  a  sunbeam, 
and  beckons  to  the  children,  who  go  away  with  him. 

CURTAIN. 


"  Well,  it  was  pretty,"  said  Florizel,  as  we  left 
the  theatre. 

"  It  had  to  end  that  way,"  I  apologized.  She 
laughed. 

"  But,  I  shall  be  afraid  to  look  into  another 
book!  And  as  for  the  Professor  and  his  sister — 
do  you  suppose  they  are  wizards?"  I  supposed 
they  were.  Florizel  laughed  like  a  delighted  child. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  happy!  " 

"  You  know  that  I  am  glad  for  you,  Florizel," 
said  I.  Then,  "  Won't  you  come  and  meet  the 
cast?"  But  she  said,  no,  that  she  would  see  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  at  the  house,  and  meet  the  others  some 
other  time.  So  I  left  her  alone  for  a  moment. 

Pierrot  and  Pierrette  were  joyous. 

"  I  told  you  she  might  remember  some  day, 
hein?  " 

"Aha,  aha,  mon  vieux,  that  was  well  done,  no?" 
I  thanked  them  both. 

"  Your  songs  brought  her  back  to  the  Gar 
den,"  I  told  Pierrot. 

"An'  now,  the  world  is  yours,  petit!" 

124 


"  There  is  still  the  Professor." 

"Pouf!" 

"He  is  an  old  owl!"  They  ran  away,  laughing 
gay  contempt  for  the  Professor.  I  went  and 
made  pretty  speeches  to  the  rest  of  the  cast.  The 
O.  F.  M.  had  really  distinguished  himself.  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  was  in  great  spirits. 

"Race  you  to  the  house!"  he  called  to  the  O. 
F.  M.,  and  off  they  flew,  Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  gauze 
wings  doing  almost  as  well  as  the  O.  F.  M.'s  gor 
geous  ones. 

Florizel  had  wandered  a  little.  I  found  her 
with  Prince  Charlie.  He  held  her  hand  and  wooed 
her  with  his  glowing  poetry;  but,  seeing  me,  he 
ceased  abruptly,  saluted  us  both,  looked  long  at 
Florizel  with  sad  eyes,  his  sweet  lips  quivering. 
Then  he  left  us  without  a  word.  I  would  not 
have  denied  him  his  farewell.  More  than  my 
heart  would  die  in  that  Garden  when  she  left  it, 
I  reflected.  And  I  saw  that  her  spangled  veil 
was  strewn  with  his  crimson  kisses;  that  some 
had  fallen  on  the  sweeping  hem  of  the  twinkle- 
bead  gown.  As  we  went  on, 

"  It  was  a  nice  play,"  said  Florizel.  "  Wouldn't 
it  be  fine  if  we  could  marry  off  the  Nice  Boy  to 
the  Professor's  sister?  They  were  just  made  for 
each  other!  " 

Somewhere  in  the  fragrant  dark,  rose  the  high 
sweet,  young-old  voice  of  Puck. 

"  Tu  n'as  pas  encore  ce  rire  petit 
Qu'autrefois    m'as    ravi — 

Pourquoi? 

Est-ce  qu'on  a  fait  triste  ta  vie? 
Dites  moi!  " 

125 


m 


I  wondered  whether  Florizel  heard,  and  she 
answered  my  thought,  just  as  though  we  had 
never  grown  up  and  away  from  each  other. 

"  He  came  and  sang  to  me  when  I  was  away." 
We  came  to  the  house,  and  I  would  have  detained 
her,  holding  one  end  of  the  starry  cloud.  But 
she  whispered  "  Goodnight!  "  and  melted  into  the 
shadowy  doorway  with  a  last  glint  of  the  twinkle 
beads,  and  the  spangled  veil  fell  limp,  only  a 
spangled  veil,  now  that  Diana  had  gone.  I  turned 
back  to  the  Garden.  I  wanted  to  garner  every 
sad  flitting  beauty  of  that  night.  The  Lady  in 
the  fountain  murmured  and  sang  and  sweetly 
complained  to  the  Night  Breeze,  and  when  she 
saw  me,  she  rippled  into  a  little  laugh,  and, 
"Apollo,  Apollo,  Apollo,  Apollo! "  she  called. 

"  I  am  going  away — out  of  the  Garden,  for 
ever  and  ever,  and  ever."  Just  for  an  instant  her 
voice  was  hushed,  and  then  she  deluged  me  with 
protestations  and  questions. 

"Forever,  Apollo,  why,  why?  To  leave  us,  to 
go  away,  out  of  the  Garden!  No!  You  will  not, 
Apollo,  say  you  will  not? "  She  swayed  toward 
me,  with  waving  misty  draperies  and  beckoning 
hands.  "Stay!"  she  implored.  Then  she  mocked 
me.  "Go — but  you  can  never  forget!"  Then 
again,  "  Oh,  Apollo,  stay  with  us."  And  as  I  went 
away,  I  heard  only  tears  in  her  voice. 

"Tu  n'as  pas  encore  cet  chant  joyeux, 
Tu  baisses  tes  yeux — 

Pourquoi? 
Est-cc  tu  as  peur? 

Dites  moi!  " 

126 


Puck  came  along  and  laid  his  arm  about  my 
shoulders. 

"Cheer  up!"  said  he. 

"  You  are  cheerful  enough,  at  least,"  said  I, 
"and  you  are  as  unfortunate  as  I!" 

"  As  fortunate.  Oiseau  d'Or  is  here,  and  so  is 
Florizel." 

"  So  is  the  Professor,  and  he  will  probably  re 
main.  Or  Florizel  will  go  away  with  him — just 
as  Oiseau  d'Or  will  go  again  with  her  Reveur 
des  Reves!  " 

"  But  she  is  here  now!  "  he  triumphed. 

"  But  my  golden  bird  belongs  in  another  man's 
cage.  So  does  yours.  Perhaps  you  can  be  happy. 
I  cannot."  Said  Puck, 

"  The  world  holds  no  greater  happiness,  for 
me,  than  the  sight  and  sound  of  Oiseau  d'Or." 

"But!    She  loves  her  Reveur  des  Reves." 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "but  I  love  her."  And  with 
that  he  left  me.  That  is  all  very  well,  for  a  Fairy! 
Though  I  own,  I  was  ashamed  of  my  selfishness, 
while  I  hugged  it. 

Under  the  oaks,  all  the  Wood  People  were  danc 
ing  to  the  tunes  of  Pan's  pipes.  I  watched  them, 
waving,  weaving,  wreathing,  in  the  leafy  shadows. 
"Diana!  Diana!  Diana!"  they  sang.  "She  has 
come,  she  is  here,  Diana  is  here!" 

"  She  will  not  remain,"  I  told  them  sadly.  "  You 
have  lost  her  now,  forever."  But  the  mad  things 
would  not  hear.  "Diana  is  here!"  they  sang, 
and  their  laughter  followed  me  all  the  way  back 
into  the  house. 


127 


THE  EIGHTH  CHAPTER  PURSUES  A 
HOPE  AND  FINDS  A  CERTAINTY 
TOO  BEAUTIFUL  TO  BE  REALIZED 
FULLY  BY  ANY  BUT  THE  FAIRIES 


T  is  morning,  it  is  May!  "  sang  Some 
one  beneath  my  window.  And  when 
I  peered  out,  she  was  already  far 
away  among  the  trees,  singing  as 
she  went.  It  was  very  early  indeed. 
The  dew  shone  on  every  leaf  and  blade,  and  the 
sunshine  was  just  slanting  up  across  the  fields. 
"It  is  morning,  it  is  May!  "  sang  my  thoughts. 
"  Perhaps  my  hour  is  extended.  I  wonder  wheth 
er  the  Professor  rises  with  the  lark?  "  Some  way, 
in  the  light  of  early  morning,  the  Professor 
seemed  a  rather  negligible  rival.  I  could  not 
fancy  him  running  across  the  wet  grass  after 
Florizel.  But  I  was  going.  In  the  midst  of  my 
hasty  preparations  I  was  surprised  by  callers. 
"  Now  what?  "  I  asked  my  little  gods.  "  What  is 
to  prevent  your  running  off  with  her?  "  they  asked 
me.  "Carry  her  off,  right  from  under  his  nose! 
She'll  like  you  for  it,  depend  on  it.  She  doesn't 
really  want  to  be  a  learned  person — no  girl  does. 
She  doesn't  care  particularly  for  the  Professor. 
Didn't  she  laugh  at  Billy  Wright  Jr.  last  night? 
And  anyway,  haven't  you  first  claim?  Haven't 
you  always  meant  to  marry  her,  as  soon  as  she 
should  be  old  enough?  You  know  that  nice  old 

128 


white-haired  minister  who  lives  down  the  road? 
Well? — "  I  was  ready.  And  I  went  out  into  the 
morning  to  find  Florizel.  I  found  her  in  the 
swing. 

"  Run  under,"  she  called,  and  I  ran  under,  a 
dozen  times,  and  then  stood  and  watched  her 
swing  high  and  swing  low,  with  my  heart  for 
ballast.  She  threw  herself  back  at  arm's  length, 
and  her  two  soft  braids  with  the  red  ribbons — 
just  like  Florizel  of  old — like  my  hopes,  some 
times  went  flying  after  her,  and  sometimes  clung 
close.  Her  dress  was  white,  too,  and  like  a  pina 
fore. 

"  Let's  work  up!  "  she  challenged,  when  she  had 
swung  slow.  So  we  worked  up.  Up  and  up. 
Away  with  your  waltz  and  your  skates,  and  all 
crawling  upon  the  earth.  This  was  everything 
fearful  and  sweet  and  dangerous  and  delightful  in 
motion;  the  swift  rush  up,  the  instant's  pause, 
when  we  held  our  breath,  and  then  the  rush  down, 
down,  and  up;  and  all  the  time,  Florizel's  ribbons 
and  laces  fluttering  against  me,  and  Florizel's 
flushed  face  laughing  at  me.  Florizel's  eyes 
danced  with  wild  fun,  and  my  own  happiness 
burst  bounds,  so  I  said,  between  breathless  places, 

"  I'm  going  to  take  you  away from 

that  Professor  fellow I'm  going  to  take 

you  down  the  road to  that  minister's  and 

marry  you!"  Florizel  wrinkled  up  her 

nose  in  a  smile,  and, 

"The  old  one with  white  hair?"  said  she. 

"Will  you  come?"  I  asked,  all  at  once  feeling 
ridiculously  unsafe  in  that  swing. 

"  If  you  take  me,  I'll  have  to,  I  suppose."    She 

129 


was  so  tractable!  We  swung  slow,  and  got  out. 
I  looked  at  her  uncertainly,  wondering  whether 
she  would  continue  kind. 

"Well,  come!"  I  said,  turning  away.  Florizel 
was  surprised. 

"Not  now?     Before  breakfast?     Without  tell 
ing  anyone?"  I  caught  at  that  last. 

"  Why  should  we  tell  anyone?"  Florizel  flushed. 

"  Well,  we  should.      I  want  to  tell,  at  any  rate." 

"The  Professor,  I  suppose?"    She  turned  away. 

"  Yes.  Of  course,  the  Professor,"  said  she.  I 
went  a  few  steps  toward  the  gate. 

"Aren't  you  coming? "  I  called.  But  she  set 
off  slowly  toward  the  house. 

"  I  think  I  must  tell  them  first.  And  have  some 
breakfast!"  I  turned  and  strode  resolutely  away. 
She  called, 

"You   aren't  going  alone,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  if  I  must!" 

"  How  can  you?" 

"What?" 

"  Get — do  that?  He  can't,  if  I'm — if  no  one 
else  is  there,  can  he?" 

"  Perhaps  he  can  find  a  substitute — while  you 
have  your  breakfast.  "  She  set  off  for  the  house 
very  determinedly.  I  relented.  I  went  after  her. 

"  I'm  going  to  town,  to  get — some  things.  One 
is  a  ring,  and  one  is  something  else,  and  botft 
are  important."  She  kept  her  face  turned  from 
me,  but  the  tip  of  her  ear  was  rose-colored.  "  I'll 
be  back  for  breakfast!"  said  I,  and  went  away.  I 
was  feeling  at  once  curiously  elated  and  curious 
ly  sobered.  When  I  reached  the  gate,  Someone 
clutched  my  coat. 

130 


"  I'm  taggin'  along,"  said  Florizel. 

"How  old  are  you?"  I  asked. 

"Just  six!  "  said  she,  and  then  we  both  laughed 
uproariously. 

First  we  went  and  found  the  Most-Important- 
Man-in-the-World,  and  persuaded  him  to  give 
us  what  we  wanted.  Florizel  signed  her  name, 
and  swore  that  her  age  was  twenty-four.  And 
I  signed  my  name  and  swore  that  my  age  was 
twenty-seven. 

"Why!  You  are  almost  thirty!"  said  Florizel 
in  mock  veneration. 

"Please  to  remember  Miss  Four-and-Twenty 
that  you  would  be  an  old  maid,  a  hundred  years 
ago!  "  She  laughed  scornfully. 

"Oh!  A  hundred  years  ago,  sir,  I  would  have 
married  you  any  time  these  last  twenty  years!" 
Then  we  went  to  get  the  ring.  Here  I  learned 
what  marvelously  small  fingers  she  had,  and 
from  that,  I  got  to  thinking  how  infinitely  frag 
ile  and  fine  a  thing  she  was;  and  on  the  way 
home,  I  had  to  keep  swallowing  to  down  a  fear 
that  I  was  anything  but  worthy  to  be  the  possess 
or  of  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  world.  And 
at  the  same  time  I  was  bursting  with  the  proud 
knowledge  that  I  was  a  very  fine  fellow  indeed, 
to  have  won  Florizel's  love.  But  we  bought  some 
candy  at  the  grocery  shop. 

"Of  all  things,  before  breakfast!"  said  Flori 
zel,  and  bit  off  the  head  of  a  yellow  jujube  paste 
god  before  I  could  stop  her.  I  explained  what 
a  part  these  gods  had  had  in  my  affairs. 

"  But  this  is  a  day  in  which  to  defy  the  gods," 
said  I  madly.  Florizel  gazed  at  the  decapitated 

131 


body  of  the  god,  and  the  little  bit  of  alarm  that 
was  in  her  eyes,  cleared  away. 

"  But  he  really  likes  to  be  eaten  by  a  nice 
girl."  She  persuaded  him,  "Don't  you?  You  see, 
a  very  dirty  little  boy  might  have  bought  you. 
Or  you  might  have  stopped  in  that  shop,  and  got 
stale."  He  was  mollified,  we  both  felt.  But  Flor- 
izel  wrapped  the  rest  of  him  in  her  handkerchief. 

When  we  reached  the  gate,  Florizel  was  going 
in. 

"Shan't  we  go  on  to  the  minister's?"  I  asked 
her. 

"Now?  Oh,  I  want  my  breakfast.  And  be 
sides,  I  should  like  to  have  them  all  there." 

"The  Professor?" 

"Of  course  the  Professor."  We  went  up  the 
Garden  path. 

"What  will  he  say?"  I  asked,  beginning  to  be 
very  uncomfortable. 

"Why,  what  should  he  say?  He  will  be  ab 
sently  delighted,  of  course!"  I  looked  at  Flori 
zel.  Could  it  be  true,  as  I  had  sometimes  fancied, 
that  this  sweet  child  was  absolutely  without  a 
conscience? 

"After  his  announcement  of  last  night,"  I  said, 
feeling  that  I  must  make  her  see  what  was  due 
the  man,  "  I  should  think  that  our  announcement 
would  rather  upset  his  plans." 

Well,  of  course,  he  will  be  sorry  about  that — 
a  little."  She  wrinkled  in  a  perplexed  little 
frown.  But  then  she  became  serene.  "When  he 
sees  that  it  is  my  happiness,  you  see,  he  will 
have  nothing  to  say." 

"  Perhaps!  "   I  was   dubious.     "  But  even  a  Pro- 

132 


fessor  might  make  decided  objections  to  another 
man's  carrying  off  his  future  wife!"  Florizel 
gasped  and  opened  her  eyes  very  wide. 

"What — what  did  you  think  he  announced?" 
she  asked.  I  stammered — 

"  Why — ?  "  She  preceded  me  into  the  house. 
On  the  steps  she  turned  and  looked  at  me,  a  little 
startled,  flushed,  and  altogether  amused. 

"Didn't  he?"  I  asked;  but  she  laughed,  and  ran 
up  stairs.  So  I  confronted  Billy  Wright  Jr.,  who 
was  coming  from  the  breakfast  room. 

"My  friend,  just  what  did  that  Professor  per 
son  announce  last  night  at  dinner?" 

"He  announced  that  my  Aunt  Florizel  had  won 
a  scholarship,  and  she  can  go  to  Europe  if  she 
wants  to,  or  she  can  be  his  assistant  at  the  col 
lege,  and  she  got  a  prize  for  writing  about  chem 
istry  of  the  soils." 

"Is  that  all?"     "Yep." 

"  That  is  why  the  dinner  was  given,  and  that 
is  why  the  Grandmother  was  happy,  and  Florizel 
was  happy,  and  the  Professor  was  happy,  and 
everybody  was — .  I  see!" 

"  Yep." 

"  Well,  I  have  an  announcement  to  make.  Your 
Aunt  Florizel  is  going  to  marry  me  some  time  to 
day,  and  you  are  to  be  my  best  man,  if  you  will." 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  put  his  hand  in  mine.  He  was 
not  completely  astonished. 

"  Golly,  Apollo,  I'm  glad.  You'll  both  live  in 
the  Garden,  won't  you,  and  Puck  and  I  can  start 
that  paper." 

"  Certainly,  yes.  But  at  present,  I  have  to  tell 
the  Grandmother  and  arrange  details." 

133 


"Leave  that  to  me,  won't  you,  Apollo?  The 
arranging,  I  mean?  The  music,  and  the  place,  and 
the  time,  and  all  that?  Puck  and  I  will  fix  it." 

"  If  your  Aunt  Florizel  is  willing,  I  am 
charmed."  He  ran  away  to  find  her. 

"  My  boy,  I  am  very,  very  happy."  The  White 
Magic  Grandmother  had  tears  in  her  eyes  when 
she  kissed  me.  "  I  have  always  wished  it,  always." 
And  I  told  her,  that  so  had  I.  But  she  has  known 
that,  too.  When  the  Professor  came  down,  I 
wrung  his  hand  with  an  enthusiasm  that  seemed 
to  astonish  him  a  little.  I  had  some  vague  notion 
of  trying  to  make  up  to  him  for  the  injustice  I 
had  done  him.  And  if  he  remembered  my  be 
havior  of  the  night  before,  he  must  have  thought 
me  a  very  erratic  person.  Florizel  joined  us, 
grave  but  rosy,  in  the  habit  of  young  lady  Flori 
zel.  But  her  eyes  were  still  six  years  old.  The 
Grandmother  poured  our  coffee  and  made  our 
conversation. 

"Did  Billy  Wright  Jr.  consult  with  you?"  I 
said  aside  to  Florizel.  She  flushed  a  deeper  rose. 

"Yes.  He  is  to  arrange  everything."  The 
Professor's  sister  came  in  looking  far  more  like 
a  real  girl  than  I  had  ever  seen  her.  She  carried 
a  little  book.  She  went  to  Florizel  and  kissed  her 
shyly. 

"  I  have  been  reading  this  little  book  of  yours 
— it  is  beautiful.  I  read  until  ever  so  late,  and  I 
awoke  early  and  read  them  all  again.  Do  you 
know  the  writer?"  Florizel  took  the  book  from 
her,  and  when  she  had  looked  at  it,  she  smiled. 

"  The  Nice  Boy's  French  verses.  Do  you  like 
them?" 


134 


"Oh,  indeed,  I  like  them!  What  a  very  fine 
and  sweet  nature  his  must  be — the  author." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  would  like  him.  Perhaps 
you  may  meet  him  sometime.  He  often  comes 
here,  when  he  is  not  away  making  bridges  and 
railroads." 

"Does  he  do  such  things?  He  must  be  very 
interesting."  She  took  the  little  book  again. 

"Indeed  he  is!  I  am  sure  you  would  like  him." 
Florizel  looked  unutterable  wisdom.  And  I  won 
dered. 

"  Why  does  he  call  you  a  sea-flower,  in  this 
poem?"  The  White  Magic  Grandmother  and 
Florizel  smiled  at  each  other.  Then  Florizel 
looked  out  of  the  window  a  moment,  and  when 
she  turned  back  to  us,  her  eyes  were  shining  with 
the  light  they  always  held  when  she  thought  of 
the  wonderful  story  of  her  youth. 

"  My  father  died  before  I  was  born,"  she  said 
softly.  "  And  mother  was  coming  home  to  her 
mother,  and  I  was  born  at  sea.  And  then  there 
was  a  storm,  and  the  ship  was  wrecked,  and  we 
were  in  a  little  boat  with  some  sailors.  And  the 
Captain — Billy  Wright  Jr.'s  grandfather,  you 
know — came  along  in  his  ship,  and  took  us  on 
board,  and  brought  us  home  to  my  mother's 
mother.  And  afterwards  he  brought  us  here,  so 
that  mother  could  be  Billy  Wright  Sr.'s  mother, 
and  so  I  could  be  his  sister,  and  here  we  are." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Professor's  sister,  "  I  would 
like  to  be  in  a  story!  You  were  born  in  the  sea, 
and  they  called  you  the  flower  of  the  sea — and 
the  Captain  saved  you,  and  brought  you  to  this 
beautiful  place.  It  is  like  a  romance.  Brother. 

135 


isn't  there  the  least  little  bit  of  romance  about 
my  life?"  The  Professor  shook  his  head,  smiling 
a  little  sadly. 

"  No,  my  dear,  there  has  been  nothing  in  your 
life  but  your  unromantic  brother.  Our  parents 
died  when  you  were  a  year  old,  and  you  have 
had  only  me  since  then."  He  looked  fondly  at 
her,  and  wistfully. 

"  You  see,"  she  said  to  Florizel,  "  my  life  has 
been  just  all  plain  sailing  with  no  wrecks  and  no 
chance  for  a  rescuing  Captain.  I  should  love  to 
have  a  romance."  Florizel  drew  her  away  toward 
the  Garden. 

"  It  wouldn't  surprise  me,  if  a  real  romance 
should  come  stalking  to  meet  you,  directly  up 
this  Garden  walk!"  said  she.  And  their  laughter 
lingered  with  us.  The  Professor  let  his  coffee 
get  quite  cold,  as  he  sat  looking  after  them.  The 
Grandmother  tried  to  draw  him  out  of  his  reverie. 
But  he  rose,  smiling  uncertainly. 

"That  is  all  the  world  has  held  for  me,  these 
twenty-five  years — my  little  sister.  She  was  born 
the  year  that  I  left  college."  We  were  quite  si 
lent  when  he  left  us.  Then  the  Grandmother  said 
that  she  had  very  many  things  to  do,  and  I  went 
to  find  what  Billy  Wright  Jr.  and  Puck  had  de 
cided  to  do  about  my  wedding. 

No  one,  I  suppose,  would  expect  a  man  to  re 
member  very  much  about  his  own  wedding.  I 
know  that  the  time  was  noon,  and  that  the  place 
was  the  oak  grove.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  now  and 
hear  the  crooning  noon-song,  and  the  stirring  of 
leaves,  and  the  soft  old  voice  of  the  white-haired 
minister.  I  know  that  the  White  Magic  Grand 

136 


mother  and  Billy  Wright  Sr.,  and  Mrs.  Billy 
Wright,  and  the  Professor  and  his  sister,  and  Billy 
Wright  Jr.  were  there.  And  I  saw  that  beside  the 
Professor's  sister  walked  Prince  Charlie,  and  that 
she  carried  great  clusters  of  his  roses.  And  Flor- 
izel,  who  came  after  them,  walked  all  the  way 
over  the  crimson  petals.  And  I  saw  Puck  and 
Oiseau  d'Or,  and  the  others  of  her  party,  and  all 
of  the  People  from  the  theatre.  And  I  saw  the 
shy-eyed  Wood  People.  And  when  the  white- 
haired  old  minister,  who  was  the  greatest  Fairy 
of  them  all,  had  done  his  greatest  magic,  all  at 
once,  the  Garden  was  filled  with  a  golden  glorious 
melody,  and  a  wind  came  bringing  a  wonderful 
fragrance.  And  then  I  knew  that  Voix-belle  had 
returned,  and  that  Pink  was  happy  again.  And, 
looking  into  Florizel's  eyes,  I  knew  that  she  knew 
all  these  things,  and  very  many  more,  the  beauty 
of  which  I  could  only  dimly  guess. 

And  so  we  were  married,  and  we  lived  happy 
ever  afterward.  And  that  is  where  the  real  story 
begins. 


137 


EPILOGUE. 

And  if  you  are  a  true  Fairy,  and  haven't  for 
gotten  too  much,  you  will  see,  that  after  a  while 
I  became  very  practical  indeed,  writing  news- 
stories;  and  that  I  forgot  a  great  deal  of  every 
thing  else.  It  became  difficult  for  me  to  see. 
when  I  came  home  to  the  Garden,  any  of  those 
things  that  did  not  concern  a  daily  paper.  So 
that  is  how  it  happened  that  Florizel  made  a 
translation  of  the  poems  of  Ragged  Robin.  And 
though  I  may  have  smiled  at  it  then,  I  know  that 
it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  books  that  were 
ever  in  the  Garden. 

The  poor  Professor  lost  his  sister,  and  had  to 
go  to  Europe  alone,  because  she  was  too  much 
interested  in  her  husband's  tunnels  and  bridges 
and  too  busily  reading  French  poems  between 
times,  to  possibly  be  interested  in  radio-activity. 

Puck  and  Billy  Wright  Jr.  did  start  a  news 
paper  for  the  Fairies.  But,  before  very  long, 
Billy  Wright  Jr.  went  away  to  school,  and  every 
vacation  found  him  a  little  more  practical  than  the 
last.  Voix-belle  never  left  Pink  again.  But 
Oiseau  d'Or  passed  through  the  Garden  on  her 
yearly  flights  from  her  dreamer  of  dreams. 

There  was  a  time  when  Florizel  and  the  White 
Magic  Grandmother  went  to  the  sea  again.  But 
they  loved  the  Garden  best,  and  so  all  our  hearts 


138 


were  saved  from  being  broken,  when  they  came 
back.  And,  since  a  Fairy  story  must  have  a  happy 
ending,  Billy  Wright  Jr.  and  I  were  won  back  to 
a  knowledge  of  beautiful  things,  and  the  Person 
who  did  it  was  Rosemary.  She  is  the  only  one 
of  us  who  has  never  lost  the  sight  and  knowledge 
of  true  things,  from  the  time  when  she  came  to 
make  a  real  grandmother  of  the  White  Magic 
One,  until  now. 


139 


HERE  ENDS  A  STORY  OF  FLORIZEL 

AS  TOLD  BY  THE  FAIRIES 

AND  WRITTEN  INTO   ENGLISH  BY 

ISABEL  McREYNOLDS  GRAY, 

DONE  INTO  TYPE  FOR  HER  BY  THE 

LOS  ANGELES  PRINTING  COMPANY 

AND  PUBLISHED  BY  HER 

AT  LOS  ANGELES 

IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MARCH 

ANNO  DOMINI    MCMX 


YC  4625 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


-W, 


LD  21-100m-ll,'49(B7146sl6)476 


